tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723461053886698782024-03-13T08:18:33.585+01:00The Moyshele Rosencrantz BlogWandering thoughts by a wondering riddlerMoyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-22562312278686972642020-06-07T19:20:00.000+02:002020-06-09T21:58:32.384+02:00A vaybele a tsnie<p>In the late 1930's, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Barry_Sisters">Clara and Minnie Bagelman</a> recorded this delightful little song together with klezmer clarinetist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Tarras">Dave Tarras</a>, years before they became the "Barry Sisters" and started singing kitchy mixes of Yiddish, Hebrew and English swing.</p>
<p>I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!</p>
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<b>A modest young wife</b><br/>
The Bagelman Sisters<br/><br/>
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<b>A vaybele a tsnie</b><br/>
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<b>אַ װײַבעלע אַ צנועה</b><br/>
די שװעסטער בײגלמאַן<br/><br/>
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Lomdom birim bay, lomdom birim bay<br/>
Laybl-udl-idl-aydl, viokh, tiokh tiokh<br/>
Lomdom birim bay, lomdom birim bay<br/>
Laybl-udl-idl-aydl-lom.<br/><br/>
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Lomdom birim bay, lomdom birim bay<br/>
Laybl-udl-idl-aydl, viokh, tiokh tiokh<br/>
Lomdom birim bay, lomdom birim bay<br/>
Laybl-udl-idl-aydl-lom.<br/><br/>
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לאָמדאָם בירים בײַ, לאָמדאָם בירים בײַ<br/>
לײַבל-אודל-אידל-אײַדל, װיאָך, טיאָך טיאָך<br/>
לאָמדאָם בירים בײַ, לאָמדאָם בירים בײַ<br/>
לײַבל-אודל-אידל-אײַדל-לאָם.<br/><br/>
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<i>Is this </i>a modest young wife, a kosher bargain<br/>
He is fortunate who has found this<br/>
<i>Oy who is this</i>, clever and beautiful, tidy and clean<br/>
He who possesses this, God has him in mind<br/>
Quiet, modest, like a dove, a faithful soul<br/>
With such a dear young wife, a man can be delighted<br/>
A modest young wife, a kosher bargain<br/>
Is like a treasure, like a jewel in the house.<br/><br/>
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<i>Iz dus</i> A vaybele a tsnie, a kushere metsie<br/>
Git is deym nor vus hot dus gefinen<br/>
<i>Oy ver iz dus</i> A klige in a sheyne, a tsikhtike, a reyne<br/>
Ver s'farmugt es, deym hot got in zinen.<br/>
Shtil, bashaydn, vi a taybl, a neshume a getraye<br/>
Mit aza min tayer vaybl ken a man zikh zayn mekhaye,<br/>
A vaybele a tsnie, a kushere metsie<br/>
Iz vi an oytser, vi a tsiring in hoyz.<br/><br/>
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(איז דאָס) אַ װײַבעלע אַ צנועה, אַ כּשרע מציאה<br/>
גוט איז דעם נאָר װאָס האָט דאָס געפינען<br/>
(אױ װער איז דאָס) אַ קלוגע און אַ שײנע, אַ ציכטיקע, אַ רײנע<br/>
װער ס‛פֿאַרמאָגט עס, דעם האָט גאָט אין זינען.<br/>
שטיל, באַשײדן, װי אַ טײַבל, אַ נשמה אַ געטרײַע<br/>
מיט אַזאַ מין טײַער װײַבל קען אַ מאַן זיך זײַן מחיה,<br/>
אַ װײַבעלע אַ צנועה, אַ כּשרע מציאה<br/>
איז װי אַן אוצר, װי אַ צירונג אין הױז.<br/><br/>
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It's good to speak with her<br/>
It's good to look at her<br/>
How she can cheer me up<br/>
How she can delight me<br/>
When she makes (coquettish) eyes at me<br/>
It squeezes my heart<br/>
I get such an appetite that<br/>
I could eat her up whole<br/><br/>
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S'iz git mit dir tsi reydn<br/>
S'iz git af dir tsi kikn<br/>
Vi ken zi mikh derfreyen<br/>
Vi ken zi mikh derkvikn<br/>
Makht zi tsi mir a kheyndl<br/>
Nemt mikh baym hartsn presn,<br/>
Ikh krig an apetit azh -<br/>
Ikh volt zi ofgegesn<br/><br/>
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ס‛איז גוט מיט דיר צו רעדן<br/>
ס‛איז גוט אױף דיר צו קוקן<br/>
װי קען זי מיך דערפרײען<br/>
װי קען זי מיך דערקװיקן<br/>
מאַכט זי צו מיר א חנדל<br/>
נעמט מיך בײַם האַרצן פּרעסן,<br/>
איך קריג אַן אַפּעטיט אזש -<br/>
איך װאָלט זי אױפֿגעגעסן.<br/><br/>
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He is fortunate and happy<br/><br/>
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Git iz deym, un voyl iz deym<br/><br/>
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גוט איז דעם און װױל איז דעם…<br/><br/>
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Hi is fortunate and happy who posseses<br/>
Oy a beautiful and modest young wife<br/><br/>
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Git iz deym, voyl iz deym, vus s'farmugt<br/>
Oy a vaybele a sheyne in a tsnie<br/><br/>
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גוט איז דעם, װױל איז דעם, װאָס ס‛פארמוגט,<br/>
אױ, אַ װײַבעלע אַ שײנע און אַ צנועה<br/><br/>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYJYeupA-BpuSWsGjN2SJhPeBTSha6z5sHcHWcsMk6aJ1yL7KJpR2e0d_5ViD6R0cvt56TcvW8x-PnFc01Z70P9nc7XgOyr7I2g2d7LVH-3XBLIwydEVJ08sKdA_Q5dx8aleQsLbXYi1y/s1600/BagelmanSisters.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYJYeupA-BpuSWsGjN2SJhPeBTSha6z5sHcHWcsMk6aJ1yL7KJpR2e0d_5ViD6R0cvt56TcvW8x-PnFc01Z70P9nc7XgOyr7I2g2d7LVH-3XBLIwydEVJ08sKdA_Q5dx8aleQsLbXYi1y/s400/BagelmanSisters.png" width="400" height="397" data-original-width="743" data-original-height="737" /></a></div>Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-77314266148033015182018-11-11T18:57:00.000+01:002018-11-11T18:57:42.650+01:00The Great War of 1914In honour of World War I armistice day, here's another one of my singable translations of the great french singer-songwriter Georges Brassens: his song for the glory of the Great War of 1914. I'm convinced World War I was one of the greatest stupidities in the history of Europe and mankind, and if it had been prevented, there wouldn't have been either a Nazi Germany or a Soviet Union under the command of little father of the people, Stalin. I particularly like the use of a military march for this gently sarcastic pacifist song.<br />
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Here are the lyrics:<br />
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<b>The Great War of 1914</b> a (singable) translation of <i>La Guerre de 14-18</i>, by Georges Brassens<br />
Translation copyright © 2018 by Moyshelé Rosencrantz - unauthorized reproduction prohibited<br />
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Ever since men on horse and saddle<br>
At the sight of blood rejoice<br>
Out of a thousand lusty battles<br>
If I were asked to make a choice<br>
Though ‘tis a delicate type of request<br>
There is one war of my heart the queen<br>
Me, my lieutenant the one I like best<br>
Is the great war of 1914<br>
<br>
Is this to say that for the ancients<br>
I would refuse to beat my drum<br>
Or that I quickly lose my patience<br>
With the offensives in Vietnam<br>
Quite on the contrary, deep in my chest<br>
They will remain where they’ve always been<br>
But my lieutenant the one I like best<br>
Is the great war of 1914<br>
<br>
I know the footsoldiers of Sparta<br>
Didn’t thrust their spears in fleece<br>
And that the men of Bonaparte<br>
Didn’t shoot at ducks and geese<br>
Their mighty feats, they were not in jest<br>
They left whole cities in smithereens<br>
But my lieutenant the one I like best<br>
Is the great war of 1914<br>
<br>
Of course the war of nineteen-forty<br>
Didn’t entirely let me down<br>
For it was long and cruel and bloody<br>
‘tis a pretender to the crown<br>
But I believe, though you may not concur<br>
If I were given a choice between<br>
The two, my lieutenant the one I prefer<br>
Is the great war of 1914<br>
<br>
My goal is not, Good God, to argue<br>
With guerrillas or terrorists<br>
Holy wars, wars in places which you<br>
Never imagined to exist<br>
Each one has some little merit to boast<br>
Something unique, you know what I mean<br>
But my lieutenant the one I like most<br>
Is the great war of 1914<br>
<br>
I’m sure that Mars will pull one out<br>
From deep inside his bag of tricks<br>
One that will really knock me out<br>
Hitting me like a ton of bricks<br>
Until she comes, if only she would<br>
My Prima Dona can rest serene<br>
Me my lieutenant if only I could<br>
I’d fight in the war of 1914<br>
Me my lieutenant if only I could<br>
I’d die in the war of 1914<br>Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-76768108874159622982016-09-14T16:22:00.000+02:002016-09-14T16:22:20.021+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 10The last in a series of ten blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>. This is the final part, where Lova tells about his first few years after arriving in Israel.<br />
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<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
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<b>Lova:</b> So that’s it. Afterwards, when I was staying with the rabbi, I met Khayim Rapoport, another one of my father’s relatives, who lived in Kfar Saba. He told me to come work in the orchards in Kfar Saba. I was happy to go there, only in the meanwhile, I noticed how much they needed water in Israel, that it was very important, so I went back to Haifa. I decided to work drilling wells, and that’s what I ended up doing, for forty-one years. I worked drilling wells and eventually became the manager of the drilling department with heavy machinery, in the company “Mekoroth”. Until I retired.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lova Rabinovitch in the film Awodah (1935), one of the very early Zionist films, produced by Paul Boroschek and directed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helmar_Lerski" target="_blank">Helmar Larski</a> - the film was partially inspired by Lova's adventures told here.</td></tr>
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The first job that I did was a water pump for the well in Kiryat Khayim, even before Kiryat Khayim existed. The whole place was nothing but sand dunes. There was no road to get there, so I drove from Haifa to the railway workshops. You could only drive up to the workshops. And from there I had to walk, by foot, to the place where the well was supposed to be dug, at the southern edge of Kiryat Khayim.<br />
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This was after working in the orchards, and doing all kinds of other odd jobs, that I decided to start working here.<br />
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Me and two other workers dug a hole down to the ground water. The ground water was no more than three meters down, maybe even a little less. Back then they used horizontal pumps, so that you couldn’t pump more than nine meters deep. In order to make use of all the water in the well, we had to bring the pump as close as possible to the water level. So we dug up to the water level, and reached a depth where it started getting wet. Then we lay down some gravel, some cement, and made a floor, walls, and a little roof. With an opening on top to let in the pipes and the pump, through the roof. And I wrote down some letters to mark the Jewish calendar year, I think it was 5690 or 5691, I’m not really sure, I haven’t been there for decades. It was in 1929 or 1930 at the latest. Because I had arrived in Israel on the 6th of August 1929. So it must have been 1930 already.<br />
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This was my first job. Then, I went to dry out the swamps in Kfar Khasidim. You couldn’t even reach Kfar Khasidim after the rain. There wasn’t even a road to get there – the whole way there was nothing but mud. After the rain, your foot would sink down to your knees. So first I went there with a surveyor, to measure the range for lowering the water down to the River Kishon. And then I drove to Kfar Binyamin, to see one of the Californian farmers. These were six or eight men whom the Baron <i>[Rothchild]</i> had sent to California to learn farming. And they came back and settled in Binyamina, in the first street after the end of Zikhron Ya’akov.<br />
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One of them had a mule and a Fresno scraper. So I came to see him, and brought him back with me to Kfar Khasidim. So there, with the mules and the scraper, according to the pegs I had placed in the ground earlier with the surveyor, I directed them, and they dug and dug, with their little scraper, until they had managed to dig all the way to the Kishon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Digging with a Fresno scraper</td></tr>
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When we reached the Kishon, we had to build water channels, so that the water, flowing down, wouldn’t cut too deeply into the earth and block the river. So we built strong, wide water channels out of concrete. This job I did with the members of the Kibbutz Yagur. They were the contractors for this job. It was in 1930.<br />
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Nu, afterwards I saw that the question of water was a very serious one, and I dedicated myself to it. I worked in Genigar, first in water drilling. Meaning, not with machinery, but with my hands: a rig, three legs, and a kind of a bit: a huge wooden beam about 7 meters long. Slowly, slowly they started bringing equipment from Germany <i>[see <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haavara_Agreement" target="_blank">Ha’avara</a>]</i>. When Jews arrived from Germany, one of them brought a machine with him. I myself built a rig for it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lova with team drilling a water well, December 16th, 1941. Lova probably closest to the tall pole.</td></tr>
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So I started drilling with a machine. We used the motor of a tractor, which stood there and moved the bit up and down. And so on and so forth. The early jobs were mostly in the valley – the Izrael Valley. In Nahalal, and Gdeyra, and Genigar, and Mizrah, and Tel Adashim. Also in Kfar Gil’adi, or rather, Kfar Gid’on. In Merkhavia. In the whole valley, everywhere. In the Beyt-She’an Valley too.<br />
<br />
And then I kept working for the “Mif’aley Mayim” company. They merged with Mekoroth, and formed a bigger company. I was the head of the drilling department with heavy machinery, until I retired. So, what else should I tell you about, what do you want to hear?<br />
<br />
<b>My cousin:</b> What? About working conditions when drilling. How long it took to drill. How many people worked together.<br />
<br />
<b>Lova:</b> The drilling? One minute, you asked me where I lived. So I have to tell you. Before I got married, I never had an apartment or even a room of my own. I lived wherever I worked. In a tent or a shack. And even after I got married, in 1933, I asked her, “Do you want to live in a tent or in a room?”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEJ50ocwHvkhGkoI3EJy7nV5IP8AMJmYjPxmihRFW9a21evxYG4OTd42EMfsFU62V7H10jbsTu1tZB1CRyNjv_rNUAo-teRVFds-2JUHINzC7qt_P_FP_QP5zOwwQ1HkQbxrKAtZQnOk7/s1600/AriehMiriamRabaniWedding1933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEJ50ocwHvkhGkoI3EJy7nV5IP8AMJmYjPxmihRFW9a21evxYG4OTd42EMfsFU62V7H10jbsTu1tZB1CRyNjv_rNUAo-teRVFds-2JUHINzC7qt_P_FP_QP5zOwwQ1HkQbxrKAtZQnOk7/s320/AriehMiriamRabaniWedding1933.jpg" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lova Rabinovitch and Miriam Yoselovitch, 1933</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She said, “No, no, I want to live in a room.”<br />
<br />
So I rented a room for the first time, along with a third of a kitchen, since it was in a flat.<br />
<br />
<b>My cousin:</b> What year?<br />
<br />
<b>Lova:</b> In 1933, in Haifa. I rented a room in a flat, and there was this old <i>baleboste [Yiddish for housekeeper, landlady]</i>, and another couple living in a second room, and we lived in the third one. And that’s it.<br />
<br />
<b>My cousin:</b> How often would you come home?<br />
<br />
<b>Lova:</b> Oh, it depended on the distance. Just after I got married, I worked on Mount Carmel. In Eyn-Shi’akh. Not on Mount Carmel, but in a wadi <i>[Arabic for a stream that is dry most of the year]</i> that flows down from Mount Carmel, just like that. About ten or twelve kilometers south of Haifa.<br />
<br />
So I would walk up to Mount Carmel. Sometimes I would drive in a car, and sometimes I would even walk, on my own two feet. You see, it wasn’t so hard for me to climb a few kilometers after having walked for so long...<br />
<br />
<i>End of the cassette</i>Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-60477719932238973332016-09-12T14:53:00.000+02:002017-09-13T16:02:22.870+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 9The ninth in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>. In this part, Lova wanders about on his own in the dark, trying to find his way across the border to Metulla.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
<hr />
<b>Lova:</b> I said goodbye to him, shook his hand, and started walking. At first I wore my white cork hat. But suddenly I heard a wagon squeaking – the wooden axle of a wagon turning and squeaking, and I was afraid of being seen with my white cork hat. So I took it off, and put on the grey Arabic headscarf instead, and started slowly, slowly to walk, until I finally reached Metulla. But when I got there, I didn’t know how to get in. I had arrived from the Lebanese side, from the left. And everywhere I managed to get to, I came up against a deep trench and a barbed wire fence.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiw-eaoeg3V1g-6G0D9jV5E1naf96d85ZYpvZS0Ngsung4i7B-xN_IYF0aIRfG9V2HC819uB53uziNxjC1ZxQReu7Q8Hzh2oTYfFG4ZGZhEV3nw3DOfDbpuhA49zd71PIYvFfjonJTQkhA/s1600/LovaWithHat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiw-eaoeg3V1g-6G0D9jV5E1naf96d85ZYpvZS0Ngsung4i7B-xN_IYF0aIRfG9V2HC819uB53uziNxjC1ZxQReu7Q8Hzh2oTYfFG4ZGZhEV3nw3DOfDbpuhA49zd71PIYvFfjonJTQkhA/s320/LovaWithHat.JPG" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lova with a hat: could this be the cork hat mentioned in this story?<br />
More samples of this British inspired fashion in the footnote section below.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I didn’t know there was only one entrance from the South, and another one from the North. So I looked and looked, I tried here, I tried there. Suddenly I heard from somewhere two people moving and talking. I was afraid to approach them, I didn’t know who it was. I wanted to see which way they’d go. They walked straight Northwards, and according to my calculations they had already crossed the border. I followed them, biding my time. Another kilometer or so I kept following them. And then I thought, why not? Since I have a letter saying I can stay here for eight days, and so far only two days had gone by, what have I got to lose? Either I’d have to stay there another six days until finally I managed to cross the border, or these people are Jews.<br />
<br />
So I really started to shout, “<i>Khaveyrim! Khaveyrim!</i>” “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”<br />
<br />
They say, “Yes? What? Who?”<br />
<br />
So I said a few words to them in Yiddish – Hebrew I couldn’t speak very well. I said, “I’m probably the man you’ve been looking for out here.”<br />
<br />
“Really? C’mon.”<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORAe-7NMHE8BR5SZrLCjQd7GReFcTU7LlImZ5TWc9sBmt2YMULbykYoS-shRxZUuOmTEQaj81R1AncBwboq8mL43IWoRjFjOERnV3iXNDFIQYpizWD3CLjm2aKXNlR1xGKHFs-OaM7uGj/s1600/Metulla1931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORAe-7NMHE8BR5SZrLCjQd7GReFcTU7LlImZ5TWc9sBmt2YMULbykYoS-shRxZUuOmTEQaj81R1AncBwboq8mL43IWoRjFjOERnV3iXNDFIQYpizWD3CLjm2aKXNlR1xGKHFs-OaM7uGj/s320/Metulla1931.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ynet.co.il/articles/0,7340,L-3170706,00.html" target="_blank">Metulla, 1931</a>. Possibly Khakla'i on the horse?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6haLlVcq4S-P-NwSX1nRQ4K9Iqzw8y1hwWFAueNgA1XDYc0cXKFMKhTUxKKiHpNKfYskuVz58rqHMTHN1cNxp8fEY_QKEbxp9vrkRoZoNBC-ciPMudFQqzJ5XBwXyxpb5MyErSR-3IJc3/s1600/Metula1940AharonKahana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6haLlVcq4S-P-NwSX1nRQ4K9Iqzw8y1hwWFAueNgA1XDYc0cXKFMKhTUxKKiHpNKfYskuVz58rqHMTHN1cNxp8fEY_QKEbxp9vrkRoZoNBC-ciPMudFQqzJ5XBwXyxpb5MyErSR-3IJc3/s320/Metula1940AharonKahana.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting of Metulla, 1940, by Aharon Kahana</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And they really brought me into Metulla, through some little entrance that you can’t see in the fence. Through a barn, from the barn to the yard, from the yard to a house. And the house was full of young people, listening to a record player, making lots of noise, maybe so that nobody would notice us coming in. And as soon as I walked in, the boy <i>[very emotional, almost crying as he speaks – according to my mother, Lova would always get very emotional when he spoke about this boy]</i>, he leaps up to hug me, and starts crying. A driver came, by the name of Reuven. He took me and the boy, brought us to his house, and gave us something to eat. Then he took us downstairs and said, “<i>Khevreh</i>, tomorrow we’re off at four o’clock in the morning. It’s time to go to sleep.”<br />
<br />
And really we fell asleep – it didn’t take much arguing to convince us. Then, at four o’clock in the morning, maybe a quarter past four, or maybe a quarter to five, he came, woke us up, and took us into the taxi. He took the boy to Tzfat. And since then, to this very day, I haven’t seen the boy again and haven’t heard anything about him. He went to stay with some relations in Tel Aviv. And I drove with the taxi driver up to Tiberias. I knew I had a cousin, or rather a cousin of my father’s, from the pioneer group in Saratov, in Russia, who had moved to Israel, and I thought I had heard he was in Dganiya. So I went to Dganiya. I spent the night in Dganiya Aleph. And I looked for Gelman in Dganiya Bet. I didn’t know he had changed his name to Gil’adi. And I couldn’t find him anywhere.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SyvntgugY9DcgEUBySgtPXuLm10VChrzwEq00hX2F4Wpuh2Ip-rJP6m7j7HpiddtfZSoq0Ryro83a4l8UOZY3aZu8fMUUjwBAH1tzLQPvJEeQB9mb-OVP3kSe1Qi1vkCTUVF0dpAfwqs/s1600/DganiyaA1934a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SyvntgugY9DcgEUBySgtPXuLm10VChrzwEq00hX2F4Wpuh2Ip-rJP6m7j7HpiddtfZSoq0Ryro83a4l8UOZY3aZu8fMUUjwBAH1tzLQPvJEeQB9mb-OVP3kSe1Qi1vkCTUVF0dpAfwqs/s320/DganiyaA1934a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.snunit.k12.il/vmuseum/pal/degania/degania.html" target="_blank">Dganiya Alef</a> (the first Kibbutz in Israel, just south of the Sea of Galilee), 1934, three photos</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51qIsBTnrn9ZJIkPLGUBT3VB2PJdRdDYK7ASTx2oGHEBkKxxMcgf6SozX3dieUub5a2_5brRvahxAobfrBkkZaKsx-rjoknRbDDRVge8dPU3jOwwSTFGaSn6rVwW5VfR_fX1_bSnsZIDK/s1600/DganiyaA1934b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51qIsBTnrn9ZJIkPLGUBT3VB2PJdRdDYK7ASTx2oGHEBkKxxMcgf6SozX3dieUub5a2_5brRvahxAobfrBkkZaKsx-rjoknRbDDRVge8dPU3jOwwSTFGaSn6rVwW5VfR_fX1_bSnsZIDK/s320/DganiyaA1934b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lGSdcLbKtIEYMSAjfx7aSGsAvwH5ot5hpRas82xuAVMwB1_xEdL6d9cF38BpjNNcNseyAvMKfHAz-pxOxvoYtWy0Q2-m2t-IqvzzRFoB4GkTi9-jUxyzMd8wqchxUbtiEDvKtie7RiNu/s1600/DganiyaA1934c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lGSdcLbKtIEYMSAjfx7aSGsAvwH5ot5hpRas82xuAVMwB1_xEdL6d9cF38BpjNNcNseyAvMKfHAz-pxOxvoYtWy0Q2-m2t-IqvzzRFoB4GkTi9-jUxyzMd8wqchxUbtiEDvKtie7RiNu/s320/DganiyaA1934c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I couldn’t find him there, and I couldn’t find him at the Sea of Galilee. So I decided to go to Haifa. There I had another cousin, and I was very happy to see her. And then I went to Tel Aviv, where I had another cousin, David Freedman, David Arieh Freedman, an eye-doctor and an author. And an art critic. I stayed with him a few days, and then I went to Jerusalem, to visit the Rabbi Kook <i>(the chief Rabbi of Israel)</i> and his brothers, who were also relations of my father. So I met the Reyb Khaim Kook, and he was completely blind – couldn’t see a thing. Also his wife Sarah. They had visited us in Russia, so that I knew them very well. And I also saw some other relations.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMcpjKZLJFWcLchRf0jN7Ab-2UQd9g-5WISE_lEMqoVBswFQwGRohpz_4z0NSRwGT1_hIo29_sTJpTIz70Z-b8qfJRMS10E3gRhBx_Cg6MjtUN2xrRkPURQjGjCrtNmOqJYXHwWSmO1-s/s1600/abraham_isaac_kook_1924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMcpjKZLJFWcLchRf0jN7Ab-2UQd9g-5WISE_lEMqoVBswFQwGRohpz_4z0NSRwGT1_hIo29_sTJpTIz70Z-b8qfJRMS10E3gRhBx_Cg6MjtUN2xrRkPURQjGjCrtNmOqJYXHwWSmO1-s/s320/abraham_isaac_kook_1924.jpg" width="197" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HaRav Abraham Isaac Kook, the first Ashkenazi chief rabbi of the British Mandate of Palestine and Lova's cousin, 1924</td></tr>
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Now, when I visited the Rabbi Kook, he said to me, “Learn how to speak Hebrew and English, and I’ll take care of you. You can become a government clerk, I can manage that for you.”<br />
<br />
I said, “Rabbi, I walked for two years not in order to become a government clerk. It’s not such a great honor. I want to be a pioneer.”<br />
<br />
“Oh...” he said. “A pioneer! A pioneer to build the land, this is the greatest deed in the world.”<br />
<br />
And then I told the rabbi briefly about my travels, and he said, “How’s this now? I sent you an immigration certificate to Istanbul, to Kushta, for you to come.”<br />
<br />
I answered, “Only I didn’t know about it, I didn’t hear about it, and in Kushta nobody knew anything about me. I was far away from Istanbul. I was somewhere else, and I never found out. I would have been delighted to have been able to cross the border legally a long time ago!”<br />
<br />
And that’s how it was. Only when I visited the rabbi did I find out that they had sent me an immigration certificate to Turkey. You see, when I was in Turkey, in Sebinkarahisar, I once wrote a letter to my cousin Leah Yablokovskaya, may she rest in peace. And she sent the letter on to the Rabbi Kook, and on this basis he sent an immigration certificate to Istanbul. Only, they didn’t know the exact address. I was wandering about, and I didn’t know or dream that anybody was planning on sending me a certificate, so that the certificate reached Istanbul, while I reached other places. We didn’t meet each other. <i>[he laughs]</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><b>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/09/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-10.html">Part 10</a>...</b></i><br />
<hr />
<h3>
A (longish) footnote regarding cork hats</h3>
<div>
Regarding Lova's cork hat - this fashion was inspired by the British soldiers in the mandate period, who wore cork hats which they called “pith helmets”.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This picture is taken from one of my favorite books as a child: In the Land of Lobengulu King of the Zulus (בארץ לובנגולו מלך זולו), written and illustrated by Nahum Gutman, published 1939. In the picture, Nahum paints himself with a cork hat, exploring the African safaris.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSqnnL_mc4OiZ4GE-pTKpZ3XPekwR8YIZUYsLrG3ui4cxrX7LYTeeBfFnHnnsK3zPI4C0bZP9DsuXYooa3kGbvU96V3Gqr-x4xCWEBeejVPuO1KmMlxsYDD8Kl0qWOjOunFbqNf_AJOH-/s1600/CorkHatNahumGutman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSqnnL_mc4OiZ4GE-pTKpZ3XPekwR8YIZUYsLrG3ui4cxrX7LYTeeBfFnHnnsK3zPI4C0bZP9DsuXYooa3kGbvU96V3Gqr-x4xCWEBeejVPuO1KmMlxsYDD8Kl0qWOjOunFbqNf_AJOH-/s1600/CorkHatNahumGutman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nahum Gutman, Lobengulu King of the Zulus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Here we see travelling fashion in Israel in the 1930's: khaki shorts, three-quarter length socks, Arabic keffiyeh, cork hat:</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7dq7mEtPlZNbiQttDqvv2-W9H8z64YTtq3c41A7CyxjPwYHYTGBbm0F74preQpcFkK63JxhR2PmMr5atUhylmYnJlMoG3xza0JE8fuQFYc46i0QV6DCen6DXT6kYDqEPz698Zym9QDwPQ/s1600/CorkHat_Fashion_in_the_30s_travelers_in_Israel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7dq7mEtPlZNbiQttDqvv2-W9H8z64YTtq3c41A7CyxjPwYHYTGBbm0F74preQpcFkK63JxhR2PmMr5atUhylmYnJlMoG3xza0JE8fuQFYc46i0QV6DCen6DXT6kYDqEPz698Zym9QDwPQ/s320/CorkHat_Fashion_in_the_30s_travelers_in_Israel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1939, photo by Nurit Grindlinger</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div>
And a certain Shlomo Kramer (unknown stranger) with a similar cork hat:</div>
<div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj3ecDtMaZxUD24ZSraNT34zgBko77yKxK0qJOA9ZViibya6Wl9tjOS1OA7EdeS5kQ-282cRY5AUbERtoD2QUwEKjRvyaFPoiQ4H0oCOdNzjobPv_4ev4NSRDWGTCiiRD4Bg4l9zR82kE/s1600/CorkHatShlomoKramerIsrael1938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj3ecDtMaZxUD24ZSraNT34zgBko77yKxK0qJOA9ZViibya6Wl9tjOS1OA7EdeS5kQ-282cRY5AUbERtoD2QUwEKjRvyaFPoiQ4H0oCOdNzjobPv_4ev4NSRDWGTCiiRD4Bg4l9zR82kE/s320/CorkHatShlomoKramerIsrael1938.jpg" width="202" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1938, photo by Nurit Grindlinger</td></tr>
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<div>
The originators of this fashion were the British empire troops. Here's one picture in India:</div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEB97uuZorhpGvUsN6gD45G0OGBgNI_78da57zkYnQ0OK3SOoERcqdFPZ7x4p9MokvDw28nhUVU55U2_jSRcSEijxl0OWCFug9ipg2K_IqQEE1KDxo3nZidLJUS-HBS1CSa-zE1B4Katd/s1600/CorkHatIndia_pith_helmet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEB97uuZorhpGvUsN6gD45G0OGBgNI_78da57zkYnQ0OK3SOoERcqdFPZ7x4p9MokvDw28nhUVU55U2_jSRcSEijxl0OWCFug9ipg2K_IqQEE1KDxo3nZidLJUS-HBS1CSa-zE1B4Katd/s320/CorkHatIndia_pith_helmet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div>
And another in Iraq, 11 June 1941:</div>
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Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-55125131210154539452016-08-09T14:29:00.000+02:002016-09-12T14:54:59.390+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 8The eighth in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>. In this part, Lova finds a man who claims he can help him steal the border... and gives it a try, together with an unknown teenage boy met in the streets of Beirut.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
<hr />
<b>Lova:</b> Nu, from the morning till one o’clock in the afternoon I had to find something to do. So I started wandering aimlessly around the streets, and then back to where the hotel was. And as I was wandering I saw this couple, two Jews, a woman, her husband, and a thin blond boy, about thirteen years old. Maximum. Maybe less. Just wandering about like me. So out of pure boredom (I was getting bored of wandering about) I asked, “<i>Ir zayt yidn?</i>” “Are you Jews?”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOIHtE5el-1V9Ifz1AvHAc-61FLmoZCPKR0TTLrcOd7dlx2Qolx1nHTuX3FDN2q-DLpbhssED3wX41GFURc4N3GtS9DGUJdk8zmVLzVzCwZWqBaYHJlRcjFmdDk6htdE6DS8WjqQ39JFG/s1600/BeirutCafe1919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOIHtE5el-1V9Ifz1AvHAc-61FLmoZCPKR0TTLrcOd7dlx2Qolx1nHTuX3FDN2q-DLpbhssED3wX41GFURc4N3GtS9DGUJdk8zmVLzVzCwZWqBaYHJlRcjFmdDk6htdE6DS8WjqQ39JFG/s320/BeirutCafe1919.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beirut, coffeeshop, 1919</td></tr>
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<br />
“Yes, Jews.”<br />
<br />
So I said, “What are you doing here? Where are you from?”<br />
<br />
“We came here from Germany. And we were transferred illegally to Israel. And lived there for half a year. The boy already started learning in a school in Tel Aviv. Meanwhile, the British caught us, discovered we had come illegally, and sent us back to Beirut, because the visa was for Beirut, they wouldn’t give us a visa for Israel. And now we don’t know what to do. The boy has started learning, and he’ll miss out on his studies until we manage to cross the border again. Maybe you... what are you?”<br />
<br />
So I said, “I’m walking to Israel.”<br />
<br />
“Oy, maybe you can take this boy with you?”<br />
<br />
I said, “I can take the boy with me, but on one condition.”<br />
<br />
“What condition?”<br />
<br />
“That I won’t see you around here any more. So that I can’t give him back to you here, even if they force me to.”<br />
<br />
He says, “Allright.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjetf9haJYKimBiSasWh0xT3v8Uw9x0I-t2P76mtbnW7ZrC-hzdcjXuLKDBq5gtTjPEz_G1N3IOfCwLKOefEsamUUG5moARlSEEkSexUnEMVGsUC60Vf7UagQt3c_YrkrlwTz0MaJDCrq/s1600/BeirutPlaceDesCireurs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjetf9haJYKimBiSasWh0xT3v8Uw9x0I-t2P76mtbnW7ZrC-hzdcjXuLKDBq5gtTjPEz_G1N3IOfCwLKOefEsamUUG5moARlSEEkSexUnEMVGsUC60Vf7UagQt3c_YrkrlwTz0MaJDCrq/s320/BeirutPlaceDesCireurs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beirut, Place de Canons - the shoeshiners, and a boy walking</td></tr>
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Why? Because if the taxi driver would say, “Oh, we cannot take him with us, and such and such, and so on,” then maybe I would have given him back and said, “I’ll manage to cross somehow or another, but with a boy? In such a way, walking by foot, and stealing the border, it’s not something to do with a baby, with a boy.”<br />
<br />
Fine. So they really disappeared and I didn’t see them any more.<br />
<br />
At one o’clock sharp, I saw Khakla’i approaching with a young lady, a friend of his Rachel from Jerusalem, and they started walking to a parking lot full of cars and taxis. And the boy and I started walking a few meters behind them. They were chatting and chatting all the time to one another, and didn’t notice anything around them, and couldn’t hear what was happening behind them.<br />
<br />
After about twenty or thirty minutes walking along, suddenly he looks back and sees the boy. He says, “Who’s this?”<br />
<br />
I said, “A boy.”<br />
<br />
“Which boy? Where’d he come from?”<br />
<br />
“A boy. Walking with me.”<br />
<br />
“You didn’t say anything about a boy.”<br />
<br />
I said, “I don’t say what I’m not asked. You didn’t ask, so I didn’t say. I learned something along the way – it’s better not to talk too much.”<br />
<br />
“So what if we can’t take him along?”<br />
<br />
“If you can’t take him along, fine. Give me the money back, and I’ll turn the other way. I’ll keep walking just as I’ve walked up to now.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY4BvDxA5tlmUmWheiW9J5aPXu2FH1-AaCnP3IggHOIc-Ets9W_gjP6jhyFyGPvSIQnClq6Tw_fmXCFKEhh_7ShRSbrVXEX8Hp53tf8KTCG_fO0BPhRB0tfHiwJa2QdQnDzLV-vhWAsaz/s1600/BeirutTheRoadToTripoli.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY4BvDxA5tlmUmWheiW9J5aPXu2FH1-AaCnP3IggHOIc-Ets9W_gjP6jhyFyGPvSIQnClq6Tw_fmXCFKEhh_7ShRSbrVXEX8Hp53tf8KTCG_fO0BPhRB0tfHiwJa2QdQnDzLV-vhWAsaz/s320/BeirutTheRoadToTripoli.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beirut: the road to Tripoli</td></tr>
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He said, “Nu, ok, take him along.” So we sat down in the car and we drove off. We drove through Tyre and Sidon, until we reached Shdeyda. In Shdeyda on top of a hill there was a big house in which a French officer lived, a friend of the Jews. So Khakla’i said, “Sit here and wait until the evening. Somebody will arrive to take you.”<br />
<br />
Nu, we sat in a huge room on a sofa. The room was empty, with only one sofa in a corner. The whole time we just sat there, looking out of the window, and the boy started getting nervous. So I said to him, “Don’t worry. Everything will be allright.”<br />
<br />
And when it started getting a bit dark, just around twilight, I saw two young men passing by the window with a donkey. And they came straight towards the house, and asked us to come with them. The boy sat on the donkey, and I carried the boy’s bag. I said he’ll be more comfortable riding, and to be careful not to fall off. These were two young men from Metulla <i>[settlement in the northernmost tip of Israel]</i>. One of them was Reznik, the other I already forgot his name.<br />
<br />
I walked along with them, and we started climbing down the hill, along all kinds of paths, and it was almost entirely dark out. Suddenly somebody starts shouting in Arabic, or so it sounded, and starts sounding a horn. So I say to them, “This doesn’t sound so good.”<br />
<br />
He says, “Never mind. C’mon! Quick!”<br />
<br />
And they started running, but two policemen or soldiers or somebody came, with guns, and told them to stop and started shouting at them. The two men started speaking to the soldiers in Arabic, and I said, “Gentlemen, tell them that the boy came with you from Metulla.” You see, it was legal to cross the border from Metulla. They worked some land also on the Lebanese side of the border. So they could cross freely.<br />
<br />
“And give me the boy’s stuff, so that they won’t think you’re trying to smuggle anything in. Because I’m allowed to stay here another few days, I have a letter to prove it. I can always cross the border later.”<br />
<br />
They didn’t want me to go with the Arabs, but I was afraid for the boy. I got angry, like I know how to do sometimes, and I started to curse them, and I shouted, “Take this boy and get out of here right now! Back to Metulla!”<br />
<br />
They realised I was a bit crazy, so they left me alone, and off they went. And the two soldiers, or policemen, or whatever they were, they took me to the border station: a small house, surrounded by barbed wire. They took me into the house. There there was a French officer, and ten or twelve soldiers – the border patrol. And I got a bit annoyed and started cursing them in their own language, or maybe in Turkish. But they probably understood me, and one of them even wanted to start hitting me. So the officer said, “Atten-<i>tion</i>!”<br />
<br />
And they all stood at attention.<br />
<br />
Then he asked me if I wanted anything to eat.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t speak any French. He said, “Eat”, and showed me with his fingers.<br />
<br />
I said, “No, just something to drink.” He brought me a cup of water, then another one. Then he told them to stay, and to sit there. And the soldiers stayed. And he came outside with me, and walked from the little house to the guardroom. And then he walked with me another half a kilometer or so. And then he showed me, far away, some lights, and said, “Metulla. Metulla. Metulla.”<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1biF2GWg_gCLZQykvA-aZsI5V_MpnQvD6Q1Xxb9GUc_ONoNzvXLMV7QKEhE4icotrWZ3IbjwfGN1HgejxdCxrBD8Y5NkCy4FC8om1qhVkYGamZYomLpQMdOzEuoXqTlBqaywQpv_i51x/s1600/LebanonMap1971.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1biF2GWg_gCLZQykvA-aZsI5V_MpnQvD6Q1Xxb9GUc_ONoNzvXLMV7QKEhE4icotrWZ3IbjwfGN1HgejxdCxrBD8Y5NkCy4FC8om1qhVkYGamZYomLpQMdOzEuoXqTlBqaywQpv_i51x/s320/LebanonMap1971.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Map of Lebanon, showing Lova's approximate route from Beirut to Metulla, 1929</td></tr>
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<i>Continued in <b><a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/09/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-9.html">part 9</a>...</b></i><br />
<hr />
Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-71916156252413338402016-08-08T16:16:00.000+02:002016-08-09T14:32:58.772+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 7The seventh in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>. In this part, Lova tells about his arrival in Beirut, and how he scares the daylight out of the contact he was given there.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
<hr />
<b>Lova:</b> And every day I counted, one day less, one day less, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, until I reached zero. And there I was still sitting in jail. I didn’t have a father, I didn’t have a mother, there was nobody to worry about me outside. So I went to the barber in the jail’s barbershop and I said to him, “Listen, I’m already sitting here for twenty-one days, and they only gave me twenty.”<br />
<br />
He talked to the manager, and the next day a policeman really came, and he took me to see the French commander in Aleppo. And he told me, “Now you’re free. You can stay to live here in Aleppo until you’re 120 years old. Your entire life.”<br />
<br />
I answered, “What? You want me to stay here? Is that why I’ve been walking for almost two years? I don’t want to.”<br />
<br />
So he says, “What can I do? It’s the law.” Then he says, “You know what, I’ll send a letter to Beirut.” Beirut was the capital of Syria-Lebanon back then. “I’ll write a letter, and we’ll see what they have to say.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnMigB6wMK-ldk5Jn2I1RAkc28n_EvCytkU2QjLOOoQY-j7xjEdW46e9iWWGdDDo6UwP6JsadyGky0l2A57rIOBD9-p-QVnjJO0_VaAY9AhBMfkPtMSCYiSC66gM8oTlVh6GfOioHAxZP/s1600/Alep_RueDjemilie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnMigB6wMK-ldk5Jn2I1RAkc28n_EvCytkU2QjLOOoQY-j7xjEdW46e9iWWGdDDo6UwP6JsadyGky0l2A57rIOBD9-p-QVnjJO0_VaAY9AhBMfkPtMSCYiSC66gM8oTlVh6GfOioHAxZP/s320/Alep_RueDjemilie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aleppo, the Jewish quarter, Grande Rue de Djémilié (Jamaliya)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp362d4UGm37Zc0k4sCj16dGnZcg3WsKQhl2GFgiIcowPdwpKZl_akEqcDEBnXh0hIEgkGiEcQTvhW0eNU7nryWBFDTBVTT4m8caiwr2J90oFU2nYXEqaj0mc5q_jvzaPUYnktHUlshAQp/s1600/Alep_RueDjemilie4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp362d4UGm37Zc0k4sCj16dGnZcg3WsKQhl2GFgiIcowPdwpKZl_akEqcDEBnXh0hIEgkGiEcQTvhW0eNU7nryWBFDTBVTT4m8caiwr2J90oFU2nYXEqaj0mc5q_jvzaPUYnktHUlshAQp/s320/Alep_RueDjemilie4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another picture of the the Grande Rue de Djémilié (here Jamilié)</td></tr>
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I was satisfied. I was glad to hear that he was going to write them a letter, and ask them on my behalf to let me get out of Syria. So I went to see the chief rabbi’s nephew, and I found him at home. He brought me to see Ezra Hamoi, the chief rabbi of Jamaliya. Ezra Hamoi had all kinds of rooms in his house, so he gave me a bedroom and said, “You can stay to live here for as long as you like.”<br />
<br />
Then I went into town, and found work with an Armenian man there, and earned a Syrian lira every day. And so I worked every day and waited for the reply to come.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOOqXJWK059xzEN-5tetm0IcZrshYybuF6vmWFZtEhjl5HVJ_Bl-QD0XOP-QmdJ70KRhD74msUZKbxXExdhexNLXFCzGGqLEHu3dBVHpAb7DAOwi28eF_rdN38fi8vHaSMbwzdbJykA6p/s1600/Syria1Livre1939back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOOqXJWK059xzEN-5tetm0IcZrshYybuF6vmWFZtEhjl5HVJ_Bl-QD0XOP-QmdJ70KRhD74msUZKbxXExdhexNLXFCzGGqLEHu3dBVHpAb7DAOwi28eF_rdN38fi8vHaSMbwzdbJykA6p/s200/Syria1Livre1939back.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Syrian Lira, 1939</td></tr>
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Twenty days later the reply came. I was allowed to leave the borders of Syria-Lebanon, but I had to do it within eight days. If they caught me there more than eight days later, they had to send me back to Aleppo, and there I’d have to stay.<br />
<br />
This arrived on the evening of Tish’a beAv. The day on which I was born. So I didn’t want to leave on Tish’a beAv, to run away from the rabbi’s house on a high holiday. So I stayed, and I ate with them. They always fed me in the rabbi’s house. I ate with them, and got to keep the money I earned. I bought a pair of shoes, and a pair of pants from some French legionnaire.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FHfHbStdnVa0jd12yM1k9_LFhkIjWEzrIsWSe7ws2zXbvzC1AT2LYHy-9J20WJSEnPaWwjd0oacsUSOOlG3ogEVWvtaw02gPOyej_7CIk27863-mdgVrYzWbcqvdsS9WtmoW527k4KVu/s1600/Synagogue_Aleppo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FHfHbStdnVa0jd12yM1k9_LFhkIjWEzrIsWSe7ws2zXbvzC1AT2LYHy-9J20WJSEnPaWwjd0oacsUSOOlG3ogEVWvtaw02gPOyej_7CIk27863-mdgVrYzWbcqvdsS9WtmoW527k4KVu/s320/Synagogue_Aleppo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Central Synagogue of Aleppo, in 2011</td></tr>
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So on Tish’a beAv, I spent the whole day in the synagogue. Next to Ezra Hamoi’s house there was a small synagogue, and I went there to pray and fast. The next morning, when I woke up, I took some food, and all of my belongings: a blanket, and a pair of pants, and a pair of shoes. And I had also bought a kind of a cork hat, the kind that the English wear. A white hat with a thin blue stripe. And a chequered grey Arabic headscarf.<br />
<br />
I parted with my hosts, and I started walking on the road southwards. I had a compass with me – I have it with me to this very day. The map I don’t have any more. I went along the road for three or four hours, when suddenly I heard a car coming up behind me. So I stopped the car – a big truck full of chickens in chicken coops. With a little roof. So I stopped him, and asked him if I he couldn’t take me to Beirut. He said, “Sure, climb up on top of the coops.”<br />
<br />
Well, I spread my blanket on top of the prickly chicken coops, and lay down on top of it. A great pleasure – it wasn’t exactly. We drove all day long, and at one o’clock at night we arrived in the Beirut market. There I got off. By chance I had the address of a Jew who had a guesthouse there, and whose surname was just like mine, Rabinovitch. Nowadays my surname is Rabani, but back then my surname was Rabinovitch, just like his.<br />
<br />
So I asked in the market, if anybody knew where I could find this Rabinovitch hotel. Somebody answered, “Sure, I know”. So he led me there. There where he led me, there was a metal staircase outside the house, leading up to the third or fourth floor, I’m not quite sure any more. I knocked on the door. Out of the door came an old Jew wearing glasses. He looked exactly like Mendele the bookseller. He had just the right kind of face, an old man with glasses.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATWhWHAvoUGv3eje-z0AuaOK-AA7i26Oz_kWxxEmyeAlOVl-1Ux7FJZ207voxfWYzoYZnhqpK7NOInfDeZM2LNvHhyusVlsFZTPltIxHTltci4ZF3PjTvVeY1qIhqGgozg-xvVQeBy_2X/s1600/mendele2b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATWhWHAvoUGv3eje-z0AuaOK-AA7i26Oz_kWxxEmyeAlOVl-1Ux7FJZ207voxfWYzoYZnhqpK7NOInfDeZM2LNvHhyusVlsFZTPltIxHTltci4ZF3PjTvVeY1qIhqGgozg-xvVQeBy_2X/s320/mendele2b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mendele Moykher Sforim (the bookseller), whom Mr. Rabinovitch resembled like two drops of water</td></tr>
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And he asked me, “What do you want? Who are you?”<br />
<br />
I said, “I’m a Jew. I’m walking from Russia to Israel, and they gave me this address and told me you could help me.”<br />
<br />
He said, “Oy, I can’t. I’m afraid... You know, the police.”<br />
<br />
So I said, “What are you afraid of? I have a letter.” And I showed him my letter. As he started reading the letter <i>(laughs)</i>, his hands started shaking. I didn’t know what was written in there. It said that I was a dangerous element to the public, and that if they catch me in the borders of Syria after such and such date, they had to send me back there to Aleppo. This I found out for the first time at his house.<br />
<br />
After he read the letter, he said, “<i>Kum arayn.</i>” “Come in, come in.”<br />
<br />
I came in, it was the middle of the night already. He brought me into the kitchen and brought a ladder. Then he said, “Climb!”<br />
<br />
I said, “Climb where? There’s only the ceiling up there.”<br />
<br />
He said, “Climb, climb. Push a trapdoor with your head and climb inside. There’s a little room up there for illegals.” That’s where he always used to hide them.<br />
<br />
So I climbed in, and saw two beds and a table. The table was covered with all kinds of books, journals, and newspapers. I didn’t look at anything. I didn’t even take off my shoes. I didn’t take off my clothes. I just lay down in bed and fell asleep like a dead man.<br />
<br />
When I woke up the following morning, I opened the little trapdoor, and shouted, “Mr. Rabinovitch! Mr. Rabinovitch! <i>Git mir dem leyter!</i>” “Give me the ladder!”<br />
<br />
He brought the ladder, and I climbed down. Then I said, “Thank you very much. Now I have to keep going.”<br />
<br />
He said, “What do you mean, to keep going? Sit down!”<br />
<br />
“Where?” I asked. He said, “Here!” And there he had eggs, milk, butter and bread. And we both sat down, he ate, I ate, and then he said: “Now you can keep going. Go straight,” he said, “and then left, and then another right, and there you’ll see a low kind of building. Only one floor. You often run into young Israelis there. Maybe you’ll find somebody who can help you.”<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpiH6iKx9Xrh4G8LTiXT9wal0PuB_BzyHZQ6EbrlI3rzgQ5h0DpJ1R4LqndBW_ka_OdoTNMli780ywaAOnt_D2mklAmZfp6c0tt5EnJtMsj2Nq2EMGl6OrVuRB0kvX_uXU_1XYyhk0I9L/s1600/beirut_street_1925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpiH6iKx9Xrh4G8LTiXT9wal0PuB_BzyHZQ6EbrlI3rzgQ5h0DpJ1R4LqndBW_ka_OdoTNMli780ywaAOnt_D2mklAmZfp6c0tt5EnJtMsj2Nq2EMGl6OrVuRB0kvX_uXU_1XYyhk0I9L/s320/beirut_street_1925.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beirut street market, 1925</td></tr>
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So I went there. I arrived and I asked if there wasn’t anybody there from Israel. So a man said, “Oh yes, there’s a young man here. Khakla’i, from Metulla. If I’m not mistaken he’s the night-guard from Metulla.”<br />
<br />
Ok, I walked up to him and said, “Are you Khakla’i from Metulla?” He says, “Yes. What do you want?”<br />
<br />
I say, “I’m from Russia. I’m walking to Israel. They told me maybe somebody here can give me some advice, about the best way to cross the border, and so on.”<br />
<br />
So he says, “No problem. Advice I can give you all kinds of. But do you have any money?”<br />
<br />
I said, “What do you mean, any money? How much money?”<br />
<br />
He said, “Twenty five Syrian Liras.”<br />
<br />
I said, “Twenty five Syrian Liras I don’t have.”<br />
<br />
“Ok, twenty liras.”<br />
<br />
“Twenty, I don’t have.”<br />
<br />
“Fifteen, do you have?”<br />
<br />
“Fifteen I have.”<br />
<br />
“Give me the money and come back here at one o’clock.” Then he said the money was needed for the taxi.<br />
<br />
Fine. I gave him all of my money and he said, “At one o’clock sharp, you’ll find me here. Start following me. No talking, no questions, no nothing. Just follow me.”<br />
<br />
“Ok.”<br />
<br />
<i>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/08/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-8.html"><b>part 8</b></a>...</i>Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-28356757636202612402016-07-26T12:58:00.002+02:002016-07-26T12:59:21.328+02:00The Friend ShipHere’s another one of my singable translations of the great French singer-songwriter, Georges Brassens, into English. This time it’s <i>Les Copains d'abord</i>: a pun in French meaning both “friends on board” and “friends first”. I tried to keep the spirit of the pun by translating it as <i>The Friend Ship</i>. The French original, written for the movie <i>Les copains</i> (1964), is probably Brassens’ most recognisable song - the movie has long been forgotten, but the song lingers on, and even most teenagers will recognise it, albeit vaguely. It is sung at almost every family gathering with my French in-laws. Needless to say, the song is about friendship, and about a boat with the same name as the song title.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="100" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/275413428&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xvpa-DJJyrrdUI7RQ2t4u0cIfBfcAsqHCo60F4a8gXMODFfFTYoOtYx_ep2LMIobqxqeERVgETiCROdEDpfZH17gQBQ_O3ptCSqI8bzNm9SOHNDSZqFrW0vAd69sSI371G52ifKXzIwc/s1600/the_friend_ship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xvpa-DJJyrrdUI7RQ2t4u0cIfBfcAsqHCo60F4a8gXMODFfFTYoOtYx_ep2LMIobqxqeERVgETiCROdEDpfZH17gQBQ_O3ptCSqI8bzNm9SOHNDSZqFrW0vAd69sSI371G52ifKXzIwc/s320/the_friend_ship.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julie Anne Workman: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Old_boat_at_Dungeness.jpg" target="_blank">An old fishing boat on the pebble beach of Dungeness, Kent</a>. 10 April 2009</td></tr>
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<br />
Here are the lyrics:<br />
<br />
<b>The Friend Ship</b> a (singable) translation of <i>Les copains d'abord</i>, by Georges Brassens<br />
Translation copyright © 2012 by Moyshelé Rosencrantz - unauthorized reproduction prohibited<br />
<br />
This old boat needed just one look<br />
To know her captain wasn't Cook<br />
Nor yet Columbus, Pizzaro, Magellan or Drake<br />
She had “the Friend Ship” for a name<br />
In faded letters, more’s the shame<br />
The kind of boat no sensible sailor would care to take<br />
<br />
The conversations on the boat<br />
Were not the type you might hear quoted<br />
By professors, politicians, lawyers and such<br />
The captain, sailors and first mate<br />
Were not descended from the great<br />
But just a bunch of old childhood friends trying to stay in touch<br />
<br />
They were not chosen by Voltaire<br />
For their refined and noble air<br />
They were not Hamlet and Horatio sung by the Bard<br />
Their manners hardly would have won<br />
Much admiration in Salons<br />
To see them thumping each others' bellies a wee bit hard<br />
<br />
They were not angels either no<br />
They had not read the Bible though<br />
They knew what friendship meant when sailing out on the sea<br />
Jim, Andy, Joe & Company<br />
It was their only litany<br />
Their credo, their philosophy, their holy trinity<br />
<br />
When came the icebergs of Titanic<br />
Friendship helped them not to panic<br />
Friendship pointed to the North Star high in the sky<br />
And when they fell into distress<br />
Arms flailing wildly S.O.S.<br />
You would have said that they're trying to fly, that they're trying to fly<br />
<br />
In every Sunday get-together,<br />
They'all came, fair or rotten weather<br />
And if one didn't show up it's cause he was dead<br />
But let a hundred years go by<br />
Time enough for many a last good-bye<br />
The naughty memory of a lad wouldn't go to bed<br />
<br />
Of all the boats I've ever known<br />
There's only one and one alone<br />
That never threw me overboard, to swim in her wake<br />
She had “the Friend Ship” for a name<br />
In faded letters, more’s the shame<br />
The kind of boat no sensible sailor would care to takeMoyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-45816023007510501362016-07-25T11:58:00.000+02:002016-08-08T16:53:13.153+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 6The sixth in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>. In this part, Lova crosses the border into Syria, then under French control, and is thrown straight away back into jail, where he has an unpleasant experience.<br />
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<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
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<b>Lova:</b> Meanwhile, what happened? When I left Malatya, of course they gave me a letter for the police. Each town I would reach, I’d have to report to the police, and they would see my letter and allow me to keep going. Until I reached Kilis. When I reached Kilis, the policemen, who knew I was Jewish, told me they had some Jews living there. So they brought me to see the Jews. It happened to be a Monday, the day on which you read the Torah in the synagogue. So they invited me to come up and read the Torah. And then they invited me for breakfast. I parted with them, and I kept going, until I reached a small town near the border, and then I crossed the Turkish-Syrian border to another small town called Az-Az.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entrance to the Aleppo citadel</td></tr>
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There of course I ran into the police again, and they brought me to the French commander of Az-Az. And he asked me “where from?” and “what?” so I explained that I’d been walking for such and such number of months, that I had spent eight months in Caucasia and thirteen months in Turkey, and now I’m here in Syria and I want to keep going.<br />
<br />
He said, “I can’t send you onwards by foot. Do you have any money?” I answered, “Money, I don’t have.”<br />
<br />
He said, “So how do you propose to travel farther?”<br />
<br />
I answered, “Just like I travelled up to here, on my two feet. I’ve been walking for almost two years now. I want to keep walking.”<br />
<br />
He says, “Maybe you want to, but I can’t let you keep going by foot all on your own. A policeman has to accompany you. And the policemen here don’t want to walk. Take a taxi.”<br />
<br />
I said, “How can I take a taxi? I don’t have any money.”<br />
<br />
So they put me into jail there. I stayed there for three days, and then I started banging on the door. There was nobody else there, I was all on my own in the jail. I started banging on the door, and shouting, until somebody heard me and opened the door and took me back to the officer.<br />
<br />
I said, “I won’t stay here any more. Let me keep walking.”<br />
<br />
So he says, “Nu, how can I let you keep walking if none of the policemen want to walk with you?”<br />
<br />
I answered, “If they don’t want to, you’re the local authority. Give them some money, and let them take a taxi.”<br />
<br />
So he finally agreed. He took out some money, and gave it to a policeman who brought me by taxi to Aleppo. When we arrived in Aleppo, he took me to the police station. He left me there, and then of course he went back to Az-Az. As for me, it was a two-floor building. So they locked me into the broom closet under the stairs, just like the one we have at home, to sleep for the night.<br />
<br />
The next morning they told me to get up, and took me to court. There I was brought before the French judge, with a kind of a white ruffled collar, and a curly wig, and a wide sort of gown. He asked me, “Do you have a passport?” “I don’t.” “Do you have a visa?” “I don’t.” “Did you cross the border without permission?” “I did.” “Twenty days in jail.”<br />
<br />
He didn’t need to ponder much. The trial lasted all in all less than a minute. Then they took me to the Aleppo jail, an ancient building up on top of a hill. An ancient building made out of rough-hewn rocks and very thick walls. That was the jail where they put me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Aleppo citadel, “an ancient building up on top of a hill... made out of rough-hewn rocks and very thick walls” - probably where Lova was jailed</td></tr>
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And the rule there was: anybody jailed for over three months, he went into a little cell. Under three months, we were all together in one huge room. Since I was only there for twenty days, they put me into the huge room with another 130 men who had been jailed for short periods. Many of them were drivers who had been fined and couldn’t afford to pay. And other minor infractions.<br />
<br />
And among us was also Khujey Effendi, a Muslim mullah, who had officiated over the wedding of a 14-years old girl. Now, according to the French law, you couldn’t marry a girl younger than sixteen. So they gave him 3 months in jail and he sat there with us in the room. Only he got a wide space, and all of the other Muslims would sit at a bit of a distance from him. And he had a carpet, and they would bring him food. They all honored him, after all he was a mullah, not just anybody!<br />
<br />
And among them was also a Jew, the nephew of the chief rabbi, Ezra Hamoi from Jamaliya. The prettiest part of Aleppo is Jamaliya, the Jewish quarter. Ezra Hamoi was the chief rabbi there. And this man, being Ezra Hamoi’s nephew, had borrowed a car, and had had an accident, and they charged him too much money to fix it. He refused to pay, so they sent him to trial, and gave him three months in jail.<br />
<br />
Then, while he was sitting in jail, he decided that maybe it was better to pay and not to sit there after all. But meanwhile he gave me his address– he knew I was a Jew from Russia walking all the way to Israel, and he told me to come to see him when I finally get out of jail.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBI3axGBTAwnD6Y8H65DJte-J9qymBVaC_ABoPJ27XdFfHSCaaVW5miRfNXZx6ktGQT7Za02uCEdcC4jrX0ZD6x3-li1kFZ2f92CjI-PvaqUoZ7NZtfuXgB9xxD0jQ0DcgdhBhyphenhyphenKv8a_UA/s1600/AlepNouvelleRue2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBI3axGBTAwnD6Y8H65DJte-J9qymBVaC_ABoPJ27XdFfHSCaaVW5miRfNXZx6ktGQT7Za02uCEdcC4jrX0ZD6x3-li1kFZ2f92CjI-PvaqUoZ7NZtfuXgB9xxD0jQ0DcgdhBhyphenhyphenKv8a_UA/s320/AlepNouvelleRue2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aleppo, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_Aleppo#/media/File:Aleppo_Nestle_building_Tilal_street_1920s,_postcard_by_Wattar_brothers.jpg" target="_blank">the Nestle building on the Al Tellal Square</a>, early 1920's</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The same Al Tellal Square and building, at an earlier date</td></tr>
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There, in jail, it was the first time in my trek that the authorities had fed me. Because if you’re jailed after a trial, they have to feed you. But those who sit in the police station administratively, they don’t get any food without a trial. Nu, even though they fed me, I didn’t feel so good. I was in a bit of a sour mood, because I was getting close to Israel now, and meanwhile here I was sitting in Jail, it wasn’t so pleasant, with one hundred and thirty other men.<br />
<br />
Well, once I had an unpleasant experience there. Even though the food was good, I had a tummy ache, and I didn’t feel so good. So in the middle of the night I had to cross the room to the door behind which you could go to the toilet. But in the middle of the night, trying to step over people who are lying together like fish in a barrel, it isn’t so easy. And by mistake I stepped on a Christian driver, who was jailed for a few weeks. And he recognised me – everybody recognised me there. You could say I was one of the ones who stood out.<br />
<br />
So the following morning he started cursing me, and said all kinds of rude things that didn’t exactly please me. I didn’t think a lot, and I punched him with my fist. He fell over. And his friends, the other drivers, they caught me in their arms, and he slapped me in the nose, and my nose started bleeding.<br />
<br />
Now, the jailer responsible for our big room, and maybe even for the whole jail, was a huge Turk. We were in Syria, but he was, I don’t know, Turkish or what, but anyway he was huge. And strangely enough, they called him Kutchuk. “Kutchuk” means the little one. So he heard a commotion, and he came inside. You see, the Muslims were all on my side, and they started fighting with the Christians and beating them – it was an all out war. So he came in and he asked, “What’s going on here?” And he sees the blood flowing from my nose. And I told him that I hadn’t felt so well at night, I had crossed the room to the toilet, I had stepped on the driver, and he started cursing me. And that’s it. I punched him, and they caught me and held me, and he slapped me.<br />
<br />
And Kutchuk, he lifted the Christian driver like a fly. He lifted him and he said, “Whoever dares to touch <i>him </i>again,” – him, meaning me – “Whoever dares to touch him, will get solitary confinement, down in the damp cellar with the rats, and everything, and no food. Do you know,” he said, “do you know who he is? He’s Hershnebi!”<br />
<br />
I myself had no idea who this Hershnebi was supposed to be. But they told me afterwards that Hershnebi was a foreign guest. And I can still remember now, how he said it: “Do you know who he is? He’s Hershnebi! So you mustn’t touch him.”<br />
<br />
After this they took me to the mullah, and sat me down next to him. And they gave me a long coat to wear, and I was honored even more than I had been up to then. And the Arabs they asked me, “What are you going to Palestine for? They kill Jews over there.”<br />
<br />
I said, “A stick has two ends. So don’t you worry about me.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2duTLkoQHAoMdzuoAeBYgsC1hsDF6LbEBYznEYsIPHGRZ1s4oobPXAzxaFWvq7UbYW27NbxUG9zRrHHSmRYn6XW-zjmRguHQUAmHCgkRtVbX8nvcEXs_ivxqfPFD5J4u9RnkIVbUYEt9g/s1600/AleppoMap1912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2duTLkoQHAoMdzuoAeBYgsC1hsDF6LbEBYznEYsIPHGRZ1s4oobPXAzxaFWvq7UbYW27NbxUG9zRrHHSmRYn6XW-zjmRguHQUAmHCgkRtVbX8nvcEXs_ivxqfPFD5J4u9RnkIVbUYEt9g/s320/AleppoMap1912.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aleppo, 1912. The map shows a prison north of the citadel, another possible place for Lova’s imprisonment</td></tr>
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<i>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/08/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-7.html"><b>part 7</b></a>...</i>Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-71252697052438320732016-07-22T20:45:00.001+02:002016-07-25T11:59:59.954+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 5The fifth in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html">here</a>. In this part, Lova escapes from exile, where he was sent by the Turkish government, and tries to continue by foot all the way to Syria.<br />
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<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
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<b>Lova</b>: Of course I had prepared myself some food in advance. I calculated that it would take me about twelve days. So I prepared all kinds of food, and put it all in a backpack I had made out of a big sugar sack, and I had cut out straps from the sack so I could wear it on my shoulders. I started walking, and walked and walked for three days. After three days, a policeman caught me, and brought me to see the officer. And this officer – well, you see, while I was working I had earned some money, and with this money I had bought myself and extra pair of shoes, and an extra pair of pants, and an extra shirt. Because if you leave with only one pair of pants, and one pair of shoes, then everything gets torn along the way. Not so good. So I took an extra pair of each.<br />
<br />
When the policeman brought me to his officer, in the village, the officer asked, me “Who are you? Where are you from?”<br />
<br />
So I said I was from Sebinkarahisar, and I was looking for work in Malatya. Malatya was a city where they were laying down railway tracks. I had heard about this, and told them I was going to Malatya.<br />
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“Nu,” he says, “what have you got?” So he checked. He saw the pants, and put one pair aside. The shirts – one aside. Everything I had two of, he took one of them. Then, he accompanied me out of the station. “Do you have any money?” he asked. “I have a little,” I answered. But he didn’t take my money. He came out with me and he said, “Listen, if you want to avoid the <i>karakol</i>, the police, here’s the way you need to go to get to Malatya.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bTa_F8pHGtYACatgCdGkMHnUq9AzfTiYPJX-vjRULO_vWlV-oKBfZAR8MF-kM65T16fCU9C-cU27AcnHC2w5dsNUFLnhM-gCm0985ncEJU1ve_bmUGn_hVOM5Cx-uMRwo_1kJZSsvmal/s1600/YeniMalatya.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bTa_F8pHGtYACatgCdGkMHnUq9AzfTiYPJX-vjRULO_vWlV-oKBfZAR8MF-kM65T16fCU9C-cU27AcnHC2w5dsNUFLnhM-gCm0985ncEJU1ve_bmUGn_hVOM5Cx-uMRwo_1kJZSsvmal/s320/YeniMalatya.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old traditional houses in Yeni Malatya</td></tr>
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He accompanied me a bit, and then went back, and I kept on going. And I walked until I reached the place called Malatya. Eski-Malatya. In Turkish, Eski means old Malatya. And Yeni-Malatya, a few kilometers farther, was new Malatya, a big and beautiful city.<br />
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When I finally reached Malatya, the old one that is, I was very, very tired. I lay down and slept for 24 hours under a shelter, where the muleteers would come, leading their mules all laden with wares to the mountains. They would stand there under the shelter. It was a kind of a station for muleteers. And from there I was planning on going on to Urfa (<i>nowadays Sanli Urfa</i>), on the other side of the Euphrates. According to my plan. My first plan wasn’t to go straight to Syria, but to cross the Euphrates over here.<br />
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But I didn’t manage to get there, because there was a kind of a bridge for crossing over to the other side. Not a bridge, but rather a platform, and people and horses would climb on it, and a rafter would row them over to the other side, where they would get off.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lG88IXcYmNoUwbtESMVXECPRYn99axji4CQqaGXP-BQrtg6ySwvZBeuHk534Bnexgn4N1xLDkvacloJxkb6GMFdYTCLvbOHBNput3gngVbMeQQO3XjauXgqXAqs_tjlAlE2xFxDWL_cO/s1600/FerryEuphratesGertrudeBellIzOgluMoundJune1909.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lG88IXcYmNoUwbtESMVXECPRYn99axji4CQqaGXP-BQrtg6ySwvZBeuHk534Bnexgn4N1xLDkvacloJxkb6GMFdYTCLvbOHBNput3gngVbMeQQO3XjauXgqXAqs_tjlAlE2xFxDWL_cO/s320/FerryEuphratesGertrudeBellIzOgluMoundJune1909.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferry across Euphrates, men loading horses onto ferry,<br />
Izoglu Mound, not far from Malatya, <a href="http://www.gerty.ncl.ac.uk/photo_details.php?photo_id=3719" target="_blank">Gertrude Bell, June 1909</a><br />
(the accompanying text can be found <a href="http://www.presscom.co.uk/amrath/amura09.html" target="_blank">here</a>)</td></tr>
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But I didn’t arrive in time – they had already left the bank. And I was very tired. So I lay down and dozed, waiting for them to come back again so I could cross the river.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile a policeman arrived, a policeman from some nearby village, and he asks me, “<i>Vasika va? Vasika va?</i>” Vasika, meaning your identity papers. “Do you have them?” I said, “Of course I do.” “Where?” he asks. “Where? At home.” “What do you mean at home?”<br />
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“What,” I say, “am I <i>majnoun</i>? Am I crazy? You want me to take them everywhere with me and lose them along the way? I left them at home.”<br />
<br />
So he says, “Come to the karakol.” And he brought me to the karakol. And from there, they brought me to new Malatya, to Yeni-Malatya.<br />
<br />
In Yeni-Malatya I reported to a senior officer, and he asked me “where from?” “where to?” and “why?” So I told him why I ran away from Russia, and that I wanted to go to Israel. And they locked me inside a sort of a shed in the garden, along with some others. Anybody they arrested because of something or other, they’d put him into the shed. It wasn’t a jail. It was just an administrative thing. Maybe after a trial, they’d send you to a real jail, but this was an administrative thing, you had to have a trial first.<br />
<br />
So I stayed there for a whole month, in Yeni-Malatya. Why? Because when I spoke to the officer he told me his story as well. He had been a soldier in the War of 1914-18, and had been captured by the Russians. And he ran away from the prison camp. It took him three years to get back home, through Persia, and all kinds of places, and all sorts of trouble. So he sympathised with my situation, and took a liking to me. Every Friday was a holiday there, they didn’t work, just like the Shabat for us. He would take me home with him, and order food, and tell me all kinds of stories. And then, in the evening, he would take me back to the shed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobkytF_ppXitzPn-DyMfGQo8UsEmm4YU0gWsLAYVRDqPkOl30O8tkVjaQ_4iWLT3sZ6DU3RDmmpJt7_4MsvRwV0FCJp0XzJ7rHpKs4yjTVJ_mQWd1BXoUQa0d8cWzSFGcE4rvy1Jny01q/s1600/Malatya1933Fenercioglu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobkytF_ppXitzPn-DyMfGQo8UsEmm4YU0gWsLAYVRDqPkOl30O8tkVjaQ_4iWLT3sZ6DU3RDmmpJt7_4MsvRwV0FCJp0XzJ7rHpKs4yjTVJ_mQWd1BXoUQa0d8cWzSFGcE4rvy1Jny01q/s320/Malatya1933Fenercioglu.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://fenerciler.wordpress.com/2008/07/14/hatuney-istanbuldan-malatyaya-donmus/" target="_blank">Malatya, 1933</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHX3mp7FyZpwz4zMyMlId9rYWolkIW5_zAUGEfOWZwZRAz9QBqOfXx3tYwuq9NNhhNR8Ou0DvJF63ebVvhqkgJVBGFWQCGm-cZsCG21v3u1unlgWUU_4ObN1FWyGS5K2Pd86M_TKe3xcgK/s1600/Malatya1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHX3mp7FyZpwz4zMyMlId9rYWolkIW5_zAUGEfOWZwZRAz9QBqOfXx3tYwuq9NNhhNR8Ou0DvJF63ebVvhqkgJVBGFWQCGm-cZsCG21v3u1unlgWUU_4ObN1FWyGS5K2Pd86M_TKe3xcgK/s320/Malatya1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://onedio.com/haber/1930-yillarda-kayisi-kenti-malatya-427616" target="_blank">Malatya, 1930</a>, in front of the new mosque</td></tr>
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So he sent a letter to Ankara, and asked them to give me permission to leave Turkey, and cross the border into Syria, to Aleppo. Thirty days later an answer finally came, that I could leave Malatya and continue on to the Turkish border. He had officially taken responsibility for me, that I wasn’t a spy and wasn’t a criminal. And if I did anything bad, he was responsible for it.<br />
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<i>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/07/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-6.html"><b>part 6</b></a>...</i>Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-42632731273084688712016-07-08T10:19:00.000+02:002016-07-08T13:38:56.055+02:00Christ stopped at EboliAn Italian friend heard that I liked Primo Levi, and asked me, had I read any works by Primo’s cousin, Carlo Levi? I hadn’t? <i>Mama mia</i>, it’s really worth the read! So when I finally found one of Carlo Levi’s books, <i>Christ stopped at Eboli</i>, on the shelf of a second-hand bookshop, I didn’t hesitate.<br />
The truth is that there’s no family relationship between Primo and Carlo Levi, apart from the fairly likely descendance from the same biblical tribe.<br />
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Still, there’s some degree of resemblance in their excellent writing: dispassionate descriptions of a totally unfamiliar world, with even their own self examined through the eyes of an outsider, the "author". The small, strange worlds they describe are worlds apart: Auschwitz and its aftermath for Primo, the small village of Gagliano in Southern Italy for Carlo, where he was exiled by Mussolini’s government in the mid 1930’s for anti-fascist activity. Gagliano is lost in the middle of the remote and poverty stricken hills of Lucania, south of Naples. The people in the village are eternal outsiders, eking out an existence on inhospitable malaria-infested hills, adhering to a strict age-old division between nobility and peasants. The nobles are almost as poor as the peasants - the richer ones having long since left - and the remaining ones are all smouldering with hatred and envy for one another in a never-ending fight to grasp one of the few government-paid civil service posts. They despise the peasants, who in turn despise them. Among the nobles are two doctors with little or no medical know-how and even less desire to heal anybody, and the daughters of an apothecarist who continue to distribute their own mixtures of drugs and medicines with unknown proportions of whatever they can get their hands on. The peasants are all hungry and sick with malaria, working like slaves to grow a few meagre crops on their minuscule plots of land. They rightly expect nothing from Rome except for taxes and regulations that will crush them even further. Rome has never done anything for them since ancient times - they have always been and will always be the outsiders.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Q5f-oE7-KA5aX9FJoSBgw2hjaQ-spFlL0M9INDKz83XBNWH9kf3CMcG5hM-eN3YGoSveVcqD-J9mNNVQNOFyQIcZilbuABpW4rpLP5LxIy5OB3neUdwzf58J6Ufa_-2MHe7Km09cUccp/s1600/CarloLeviPainting1MaternaMuseum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Q5f-oE7-KA5aX9FJoSBgw2hjaQ-spFlL0M9INDKz83XBNWH9kf3CMcG5hM-eN3YGoSveVcqD-J9mNNVQNOFyQIcZilbuABpW4rpLP5LxIy5OB3neUdwzf58J6Ufa_-2MHe7Km09cUccp/s320/CarloLeviPainting1MaternaMuseum.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting by Carlo Levi, probably representing the peasants of Gagliano</td></tr>
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This is the miserable world into which Carlo Levi is forced in 1935. He hopes to spend a quiet time there painting landscapes and peasants, but instead the rumor circulates even before his arrival that he is a trained doctor - a real one - and from his very first evening there the peasants throng at his doorstep to beg him to come and care for their sick. He doesn’t wish to be drawn into local politics, but cannot find it in himself to turn away the sick. And so, little by little, he gets to know the peasants and their hidden, timeless, introspective world, filled with magic and witchcraft, diseases and charms to ward them off, misery and strange tales of hidden treasures. The region was home to organised groups of bandits in the 1800’s, and these live on in the peasants’ imagination as heroes of sorts, members of their own cast who fought the desperate fight against the unjust order of the world, knowing from the outset they would lose. They would get caught and be publicly hung, and yet they kept on fighting because it was the only dignified reaction. And of course, they hid marvellous treasures in dark caves and forests.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9TcZVuh-RPGxZZHv9MpnRczGpp2DMXZnX9KlzsZSZww_pbGuSKI8bPZYMtQEr8jyu9_GgkuFRqSBy6uE0mKxwrsJU_ceCo4TqkSvm4oYl_jH-srRD4eekVBVhBUAcwBzbsN5WTHN9SfJh/s1600/CarloLeviPainting3MaternaMuseum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9TcZVuh-RPGxZZHv9MpnRczGpp2DMXZnX9KlzsZSZww_pbGuSKI8bPZYMtQEr8jyu9_GgkuFRqSBy6uE0mKxwrsJU_ceCo4TqkSvm4oYl_jH-srRD4eekVBVhBUAcwBzbsN5WTHN9SfJh/s320/CarloLeviPainting3MaternaMuseum.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting by Carlo Levi, probably representing the barren landscapes surrounding Gagliano</td></tr>
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When Carlo Levi looks for a housekeeper, the local policeman’s wife, who helps him purely out of spite for the quack doctors whom she hates, explains that no honest peasant woman would come into his house: it is their firm belief that a man and a woman alone cannot control themselves, and for a woman to step into his house means she has given herself to him. The only women who will accept to come are the “witches” - woman learned in witchcraft, having no interest in social propriety. Most of them have a dozen or so children from a dozen different lovers. And so, a witch it is who comes to live with Carlo Levi, drawing him even closer to the world of the peasants, teaching him some of her witchcraft, cooking his food and cleaning his house.<br />
<br />
Carlo Levi believed the hidden, despised world of Gagliano would continue to exist in the same misery, regardless of political upheavals in Rome, from fascist to democratic and back again. He saw no hope for a change coming from above, and from below there would only be occasional violent outbreaks, crushed down with ruthless cruelty by whomever happened to be governing at the time. Was he right? Has Southern Italy remained unchanged since the 1930’s? Or have the remote villages all been abandoned, as so many of our villages have here in France, except as collections of holiday homes for rich city-dwellers? I’d be curious to know.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-3zNwxXLwE-YSgXLBG92H5hivRpqlPTeuJ1UGy0r0xDKV3sARe_lP0gGY4xAUq0OtwW_e2gbL8buJ4njKoaB0EUAdoe8pvjCKAtO8KhWzAgUjIMTjtt1OpDU4DO4KUKzrRSLK1DLa0Jd/s1600/CarloLeviPainting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-3zNwxXLwE-YSgXLBG92H5hivRpqlPTeuJ1UGy0r0xDKV3sARe_lP0gGY4xAUq0OtwW_e2gbL8buJ4njKoaB0EUAdoe8pvjCKAtO8KhWzAgUjIMTjtt1OpDU4DO4KUKzrRSLK1DLa0Jd/s320/CarloLeviPainting.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carlo Levi painting at his studio</td></tr>
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<br />Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-42775762317490294032016-07-07T14:48:00.000+02:002016-07-22T20:49:17.520+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 4The fourth in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html">here</a>. In this part, Lova is in jail, without any money or any food, so he thinks up a nice trick for getting some food to eat. Little by little, he gets to know his jailers and fellow prisoners. But when the order comes to send him back to Russia, he loses his temper...<br />
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<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
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<b>Lova</b>: Meanwhile, I had no money. Those who had arrived before me, and those who came with me, all of them had a bit of money. But I didn’t want to beg, so I had nothing to eat.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8m56sT_ElhI3sul_eu2i66GsVoNkDoMH31ZY8t8bhP2pIVmqDDCBwNSCFjaEkGqaWdgMBM3YbXNoNwKvxjZE0k92LCsISV_6XWbOKkT5de0wvKvTK5vpSXYX7ntiPmKiXHWRvTVd7ufb/s1600/KarsPostcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8m56sT_ElhI3sul_eu2i66GsVoNkDoMH31ZY8t8bhP2pIVmqDDCBwNSCFjaEkGqaWdgMBM3YbXNoNwKvxjZE0k92LCsISV_6XWbOKkT5de0wvKvTK5vpSXYX7ntiPmKiXHWRvTVd7ufb/s320/KarsPostcard.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kars, where Lova was sent from Duğur, <a href="http://hayduk.livejournal.com/426007.html" target="_blank">old postcard</a></td></tr>
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Those who had been there for some time, they let them earn some money by going out to work in the streets for the local government. And the men who came with me, the Jarzim from Caucasia, they had some money too. So what did I do? I asked one of the policemen to bring me some paper, a pencil and an eraser, and I told him if he has some time to sit down, then I’ll draw his portrait. And that’s it. And in exchange, he’ll bring me some food. And that’s how it really was. I drew a portrait of the policeman, and he brought me in exchange a pita bread and onions and some salty cheese. Not only that – he also told the other policemen. So they all came, and all asked me to make portraits of them, and soon they gave me so much food that I didn’t even no what to do with it all. They gave me michitot <i>[unable to trace this word]</i>, and 20 pennies for a portrait. I took very little money. Whatever they gave me I took, I didn’t mind.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSCDFgTWgnnbCFvcVBi83NriO922HKRjoI7vFC4j059pIgWauic7d0qW7Td4SUTdAhkk6KjQeL684WYv0FaQbeCPLcyOKGOWwZFhr4Fl60Q9mIaNOlkyRkENY_8YpfWZRuN1GDjHXFrr3T/s1600/kars_castle_1922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSCDFgTWgnnbCFvcVBi83NriO922HKRjoI7vFC4j059pIgWauic7d0qW7Td4SUTdAhkk6KjQeL684WYv0FaQbeCPLcyOKGOWwZFhr4Fl60Q9mIaNOlkyRkENY_8YpfWZRuN1GDjHXFrr3T/s320/kars_castle_1922.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kars, <a href="http://hayduk.livejournal.com/426007.html" target="_blank">the citadel and old city</a>, 1922</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Until a time came when even an officer came, and he brought me a photograph of himself together with his wife. Only it isn’t the done thing there to show your wife to strangers. That’s how it always was there, they’re Muslims. So he took a piece of paper, cut out a square, and wrapped it around the photograph. That way I could only see him, and his wife remained shut inside.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the police station had to move to a new building and we helped them move everything. And in the new station we stayed in a huge room, me along with some other people they had collected and arrested since my arrival. There were some Christian Georgians, who wanted to go to Paris. These were Mensheviks who had run away from the Bolsheviks<sup><a href="#lova4footnote1">1</a></sup>. And there was another man, a Russian. So what happened? We would lie down in this room, and from time to time we would go out to work. I had already started working for the local government, fencing in trees so the goats wouldn’t eat them, and planting new trees. They let me go to work. I had gotten to know them pretty well after drawing their portraits – we were good friends now. So they let me do all kinds of odd jobs. Until, after twenty days waiting, a reply finally came back from Ankara, to send me back to Russia.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgTYUOFY0ivGkBerBn6CVh2z55TvSJmxlPVjZ-Jf3hHvL1cJZJ7fBlghBz9KR0fI4_ezMkPhGXTOjjaYFP9rJwRWLK75GHB5ZPOvrJA4SFfrWQv8upJ2TjSV3adspxYyg0Eye9FkkeXfT/s1600/KarsTownHall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgTYUOFY0ivGkBerBn6CVh2z55TvSJmxlPVjZ-Jf3hHvL1cJZJ7fBlghBz9KR0fI4_ezMkPhGXTOjjaYFP9rJwRWLK75GHB5ZPOvrJA4SFfrWQv8upJ2TjSV3adspxYyg0Eye9FkkeXfT/s320/KarsTownHall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An <a href="http://hayduk.livejournal.com/426007.html" target="_blank">ornate building built in 1883</a>, with an upper floor added in 1903.<br />
In 1920, after Turksh revolutionaries captured Kars,<br />
this building became the Town Hall,<br />
probably where Lova came to see Tsakh Komtsar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now, in the town hall, I knew an engineer, the city engineer, who had earned his degree in Kharkov, in Russia, and knew how to speak Russian. He’s the one who had recommended me for work there, all kinds of odd jobs out of doors.<br />
<br />
They had a mayor there, his name was Tsakh Komtsar. When the reply came that they have to send me back to Russia, I went to see Tsakh Komtsar and I said to him, “To Russia – alive – you cannot send me. Kill me, and send what’s left.” And I was so annoyed that I grabbed his desk, lifted it – I was a healthy lad – and dropped it back down on the floor with a “bang”, nearly sending his writing implements and all of his papers flying on the floor.<br />
<br />
Just then, the city engineer suddenly came in, by complete chance, and sees me going wild. “What happened?” he asks.<br />
<br />
So I told him, “They want to send me back to Russia.”<br />
<br />
So he spoke to them, and I said, “Send me anywhere you like, anywhere in the world, I don’t care where. As long as it isn’t Russia.”<br />
<br />
He spoke to them. And twenty days later an answer came, to send me into exile to Sebinkarahisar.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgaHadJYw0YCQ4oiJ6EDwpaGitCAGWtsGP90LldC2LEKq51Xf-yxp7b786E2nVZCE-pLOPL-YebpkNFGKze9qilMBp7nF_mJPW04NM25P4i3n7pJqo4Qu1KYV7Yy2W6ymcZ8NUdrkHExt/s1600/Sebinkarahisar2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgaHadJYw0YCQ4oiJ6EDwpaGitCAGWtsGP90LldC2LEKq51Xf-yxp7b786E2nVZCE-pLOPL-YebpkNFGKze9qilMBp7nF_mJPW04NM25P4i3n7pJqo4Qu1KYV7Yy2W6ymcZ8NUdrkHExt/s320/Sebinkarahisar2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sebinkarahisar, where Lova was exiled</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Now, Sebinkarahisar is far away in the mountains. I was to go into exile for five years. After living there for five years, I could go and live anywhere I wanted in Turkey. I’d be a Turkish citizen. Fine.<br />
<br />
Among those who were there with me, three of the Jarzim, the Muslims for Caucasia, were sent into exile with me, and a Georgian too. As for the Christians, the Mensheviks, they had to travel to Istanbul, and from there to France.<br />
<br />
Along the way we met another man who had stolen the border, a Russian by the name of Malkanin, who had been living in America for 14 years, when he heard that in Russia they had a revolution, and they’re all brothers now, and all is good there. So he sold his farm, and arrived in Russia with $14,000, and started a farm there. But the Bolsheviks very quickly decided that he was a Kulak (a rich landowner), what they call in Russia a fist, a Burzhui, and they threw him into jail. So he started begging. He says, “What do you want from me? I heard about the revolution, and I came, all I wanted was to be your brother.” So then he says, “Let me go to live in Caucasia, I used to live there when I was young.” And when he managed to come to Caucasia, he crossed the Turkish border and ran away from there.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgtBo-q8N1UWa1Sy_baWjoVRlyJlVxshLmm83bdKitBJfaiMeyhs6dkshS7ZciOPVeXHLlvgk0Y-eZnkqjYxDRt2hnEOkFudtXmEqHC02gGEfLkgjjWhafBjxTDDq16YqEgeFZOQGUNeV/s1600/BolshevikPoster1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgtBo-q8N1UWa1Sy_baWjoVRlyJlVxshLmm83bdKitBJfaiMeyhs6dkshS7ZciOPVeXHLlvgk0Y-eZnkqjYxDRt2hnEOkFudtXmEqHC02gGEfLkgjjWhafBjxTDDq16YqEgeFZOQGUNeV/s320/BolshevikPoster1.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bolshevik propaganda poster: “Did you volunteer?”<br />
by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dmitry_Moor">Dmitry Moor</a>, 1920</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So they sent him into exile together with the rest of us. As for me, I spent half a year in Sebinkarahisar. Winter had come, a cold winter. Down in the valley it was green, but we were up on the hills, where it was snowy and cold. I waited for better weather. I wanted to run away, but not in the freezing weather and snow. Meanwhile, for the half-a-year that I was there, I did all different kinds of work. There’s a lot to tell, but I don’t want to talk about that now, because it’s a very long story.<br />
<br />
One bright day about half a year later... Actually not one bright day. One dark evening about half a year later, I was on my way out. But the moon rose early, so I went back into the room where I lived together with the others. The next evening I set out earlier, before the moon rose, and started walking, according to my map and my compass, always South, South, South.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RQrwJFDOYosw2hD86kH88eF8rtL6WotTQ387TkOqHNQuwNBHN-6mLEWJJ4dno_auaYvmrvachdfesZ5kpiZHBALloPVEuH5g3J5Ms81w5rJl_hjZkvaHyCfwj7dRX2S3H_qwjfFIgNwr/s1600/Sebinkarahisar1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RQrwJFDOYosw2hD86kH88eF8rtL6WotTQ387TkOqHNQuwNBHN-6mLEWJJ4dno_auaYvmrvachdfesZ5kpiZHBALloPVEuH5g3J5Ms81w5rJl_hjZkvaHyCfwj7dRX2S3H_qwjfFIgNwr/s320/Sebinkarahisar1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sebinkarahisar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1Pd9e6GKljJHR8gGWYzMG5o8Y6iL1Xox8HNRwQaZAsNn2yRH9WJos_UekbXq9aYUgsfeL3OWpds4dZfmVNYdQLIwYUWBlR69QWJwlS0JnB7LYQMoBLmcYJfBRQr2-NkN-Un9mje7LjzP/s1600/EastTurkeyItinerary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1Pd9e6GKljJHR8gGWYzMG5o8Y6iL1Xox8HNRwQaZAsNn2yRH9WJos_UekbXq9aYUgsfeL3OWpds4dZfmVNYdQLIwYUWBlR69QWJwlS0JnB7LYQMoBLmcYJfBRQr2-NkN-Un9mje7LjzP/s320/EastTurkeyItinerary.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">Lova’s itinerary through Turkey</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/07/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-5.html">part 5</a></b><br />
<hr />
<div id="lova4footnote1">
<sup>1</sup>Probably to join Noe Zhordania in the Menshevik-dominated <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Government_of_the_Democratic_Republic_of_Georgia_in_Exile">Government of the Democratic Republic of Georgia in Exile</a>, in Leuville-sur-Orge.</div>
Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-87744304101706587502016-07-05T16:38:00.001+02:002016-07-08T13:41:40.516+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 3The third in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html">here</a>. In this part, Lova crosses the border into Turkey, and immediately goes to the local police to declare himself, so as to avoid being accused of spying.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
<hr />
<b>Lova</b>: On the way over there, climbing up and down these hills, I suddenly saw a bonfire, and sitting around it were soldiers from the Russian border patrol. This spoiled my plans right away. I had been heading towards a certain town, Duğur (<i>modern-day Posof</i>), but now I quickly turned left, in order to circle around them. Well, I did eventually reach the border, and crossed over the snow, and came down on the other side. But instead of Duğur, I found myself in the village of Arile (<i>modern-day Süngülü</i>).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdoC997vahdtOTwr2m_F-1jAlLRM3ge-s_HuEHie2FHNzha3H84hgfYbderfMToUkTe_la6l9gZF9oIkcl0zwZ5HzpKanBqCZPeG7zOznsy88dSYsa5WkRdK6Y4CDDqbYV8VYuzjVrZGL-/s1600/ArileAirView.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdoC997vahdtOTwr2m_F-1jAlLRM3ge-s_HuEHie2FHNzha3H84hgfYbderfMToUkTe_la6l9gZF9oIkcl0zwZ5HzpKanBqCZPeG7zOznsy88dSYsa5WkRdK6Y4CDDqbYV8VYuzjVrZGL-/s320/ArileAirView.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turkish village of Arile (modern-day Süngülü)<br />
just across from the border with Georgia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, the first thing I did was to ask one of the farmers there if they had any soldiers in the village. And he said that they did. I looked for them, I found them, and I informed them that I had only just crossed the border from Russia. And that I wanted them to know about it. I didn’t want them to catch me far away from the border, thinking I was a Russian spy.<br />
<br />
They gave me a place to sleep in. I rested all day and all night long, and they gave me some food to eat, the kind of food that they used to eat there. It was sweetcorn and yogurt. As for the white bread and cheese that I had with me [<i>laughs</i>], they ate all of it, because for them it was something new.<br />
<br />
The next morning when I woke up, two of the soldiers from the border patrol accompanied me, walking all day, until we reached Duğur, where I meant to go in the first place based on my map. Or rather, to tell the truth, I didn’t exactly walk. Because after walking so much in the mountains without any kind of training, climbing up, climbing down, I got a painful inflammation in my joints and pelvis, and it hurt terribly.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqx1D0984pYDCyxv_VYnOXqG0kr34MA0JLnSCQnw5lYT_PX6z4v3EWfHk9otglmJ72Kc2iI0ajW9L4IzcJu-YuVPGASM73wSlrO6P_J4IRPGf0_sdC-zzBW97UUaKQrrYm6owH-JIyJy0h/s1600/OxSled1717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqx1D0984pYDCyxv_VYnOXqG0kr34MA0JLnSCQnw5lYT_PX6z4v3EWfHk9otglmJ72Kc2iI0ajW9L4IzcJu-YuVPGASM73wSlrO6P_J4IRPGf0_sdC-zzBW97UUaKQrrYm6owH-JIyJy0h/s320/OxSled1717.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So I could hardly walk. And on the way, we met up with a farmer who was driving an ox-drawn sled. They were poor people, and didn’t even have any wheels, just oxen dragging a sled, like in Russia in the snow. So the soldiers asked the farmer to let me lie down in the straw on his sled. And that’s how I travelled almost all day long, lying in the straw, until the evening. When we arrived, the farmer went off wherever he had to go, and as for me, they brought me to the police station, to the local authorities.<br />
<br />
That was in the evening. The next morning I got up, and of course again I ate sweetcorn and yogurt, which they eat all on its own over there. Then they took me to see the officers, and the officers asked me all kinds of questions: what? and who? and why? So I told them my life story, about my father, and the factory that was confiscated, and how they threw me out of school, and how I don’t want to be there any more, I want to go to <i>Erets Israel</i>. To Palestine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qOq2VfARo86iuWxS_MBZGhfzMudVPUjHkBdTWN_eJYiZYemmbHLtG90aV850C0uDZJxiKqee-3tC1BuVPgalQtG3fv_PVH4Q1EcKwlKL-mYUZEpAVu9Q0ANaApP06Bn-9hs0_GKitetJ/s1600/PosofMountains2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qOq2VfARo86iuWxS_MBZGhfzMudVPUjHkBdTWN_eJYiZYemmbHLtG90aV850C0uDZJxiKqee-3tC1BuVPgalQtG3fv_PVH4Q1EcKwlKL-mYUZEpAVu9Q0ANaApP06Bn-9hs0_GKitetJ/s320/PosofMountains2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Nu, they treated me very nicely. But I had a huge predicament. See, before I crossed the border, my acquaintances from Astrakhan told me that there was an old Turkish man who probably had some Turkish money on him. So I went to see him with all of the money I had earned for the past eight months. I gave him my Russian money, and he gave me his Turkish money in exchange. So, coming back to the story, I spent three days in Duğur. And they let me walk around, and the officers even invited me home, and treated me to a nice lunch. Really, they treated me very nicely.<br />
<br />
But I wanted to buy something or other. So I went to the shop, gave them my money, and they started laughing. So I asked, “What are you laughing at?” Well, since we were close to the border, there were some among them who could speak a bit of Russian, or Georgian. And they told me, “What’s this that you have here? This is the Sultan’s money! It’s worthless. Just like where you come from in Russia, Tsar Nikolai’s money. You have the new Soviet money now. And we have the Republic’s new money, the money of Kemal Pasha Erzarelteri.”<br />
<br />
“Kemal Pasha Erzarelteri”, meaning the glorious Kemal Pasha. Nu, there I was without a penny to my name. I tore up the money and threw it into the wind. And I was left without a penny.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIwj0u8ZKALivNc4xozivMm2NZteVAs2FfnIo1ZGZrP-9jzL5MBcbDsdXbxzEQL93Ah0yFnmg_T2eGKbo17shrkd54PI5Q5tMBYiWtxFsCGwv77GHAsVnmK2W9Qi03sn4cEgS4jSqqbdC/s1600/OttomanMoney20KurushND1854SealofAhmedMuhtarHG.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIwj0u8ZKALivNc4xozivMm2NZteVAs2FfnIo1ZGZrP-9jzL5MBcbDsdXbxzEQL93Ah0yFnmg_T2eGKbo17shrkd54PI5Q5tMBYiWtxFsCGwv77GHAsVnmK2W9Qi03sn4cEgS4jSqqbdC/s200/OttomanMoney20KurushND1854SealofAhmedMuhtarHG.JPG" width="135" /></a> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMgpRpZO8fqyBDP0Lj3oFM4M_xYBLuGQodvnAES0U44U7F6ky88z4BxmLawdp7MEWOw6xXGnOdx-tXOSAz_TRBHoKN0ir2CJFi8pfptEox1pp09wGwAifwL6AQX1FbQuvWLpOhc8fz426/s1600/TurkishMoney-1927-500-lira-f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMgpRpZO8fqyBDP0Lj3oFM4M_xYBLuGQodvnAES0U44U7F6ky88z4BxmLawdp7MEWOw6xXGnOdx-tXOSAz_TRBHoKN0ir2CJFi8pfptEox1pp09wGwAifwL6AQX1FbQuvWLpOhc8fz426/s200/TurkishMoney-1927-500-lira-f.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ottoman money,<br />
20 kurush, 1854</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turkish money with image of Ataturk,<br />
500 liras, 1927</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87tPp7IOtERMQYryKSZ7rxfZ8Po8RFO_6kWJo_TEJs88FWPnaJoUH3g5cYXBeCF9jSC-AQN6-C-dRiLtvvaBMj36Mbj2ZI4b44nmhMSLHIhI9rFUEhKgHiQ8x24Z1AiIA8a00vOJjbFWU/s1600/RussianMoney500Rubles1912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87tPp7IOtERMQYryKSZ7rxfZ8Po8RFO_6kWJo_TEJs88FWPnaJoUH3g5cYXBeCF9jSC-AQN6-C-dRiLtvvaBMj36Mbj2ZI4b44nmhMSLHIhI9rFUEhKgHiQ8x24Z1AiIA8a00vOJjbFWU/s200/RussianMoney500Rubles1912.jpg" width="200" /></a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictRkeZgz_apiZCqBe7VNxroekM-GtGTSxJg1mw_BANAOXQEv0uS4OkW1p7C-l1uWCjVFCMr1PbKW4jG2P6JbblUhrABUfegw5V5YlSKRziqia3HgAjis6RHVLncV6liyv-6FNxAFLqdUf/s1600/SovietMoney1921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictRkeZgz_apiZCqBe7VNxroekM-GtGTSxJg1mw_BANAOXQEv0uS4OkW1p7C-l1uWCjVFCMr1PbKW4jG2P6JbblUhrABUfegw5V5YlSKRziqia3HgAjis6RHVLncV6liyv-6FNxAFLqdUf/s200/SovietMoney1921.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://imperialbanknotes.blogspot.fr/2011/10/imperial-russia-500-rubles-1912.html">Russian imperial banknote</a>,<br />
500 rubles, 1912</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soviet banknote,<br />
100000 rubles, 1921</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Only what? I was lucky to be treated so nicely. They couldn’t keep me there, but had to send me to a bigger town. Duğur was a small town, and the nearest big town was at a distance of 9 days’ walking away. Some soldiers had to accompany me there, and not only me, but also three other Muslims who had managed to cross the border from Caucasia before me. They send us all together. There were four of us altogether. And they especially told the soldiers, that in every village that we reach, in Turkey, they always have a special guesthouse for honoured guests. And they told them always to bring me to the special guesthouse and to make sure I’m received very nicely.<br />
<br />
And that’s how it really was. Where they sent the poor Muslims to sleep, I’ve no idea. As for me, they always took me to see the Sheikh, where there was a special guestroom with divans, and carpets, and they brought me food. And that’s where I learned the art of eating with my hands, without a fork. For almost two years I ate only with my hands. And it was just as tasty – who’s complaining? As long as there’s something to eat.<br />
<br />
So that’s how we continued for nine days, until we reached Kars, a big town, where I was taken to the police station. Not only me, also all of the others who had walked with me. They put us into a room in the police station, and sent notice to Ankara that some people had crossed the border. And there we had to wait until Ankara decided to reply.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtlAk2hyphenhyphenCsU_ZrUFWxh2PbRzTGtsk2l5mk1EgSRQ-GrAFcgV-2faDrzGpw2mX8Zzt9cyzJElf89HFw0kiOY_EsL2xPnMhz5AQhoAvpT9tn0aI41pq1vpECK2EX-QjtnasreO9_R2-Es7J/s1600/TurkishGuestRoom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtlAk2hyphenhyphenCsU_ZrUFWxh2PbRzTGtsk2l5mk1EgSRQ-GrAFcgV-2faDrzGpw2mX8Zzt9cyzJElf89HFw0kiOY_EsL2xPnMhz5AQhoAvpT9tn0aI41pq1vpECK2EX-QjtnasreO9_R2-Es7J/s1600/TurkishGuestRoom.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Turkish guest room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/07/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-4.html">part 4</a>...</b>Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-73865853295105827902016-07-04T10:20:00.000+02:002016-07-08T13:42:14.588+02:00The Lousy ReputationA German teenager once told me at a picnic that, ever since “what happened during the war”, it would be considered indecent to hang a German flag out in front of your house in Germany. François Hollande tried to encourage this sort of in-your-face patriotism in France after the terrorist attacks on November 13th, 2015, asking the French to hang a red-white-and-blue flag out their window in homage to the victims. But I too am allergic to flag-waving, and I'm relieved that almost nobody in our neighborhood followed his advice. I can understand loving a culture, a language, a landscape, the music, food or architecture of a place. But to me a flag represents none of the above - it represents a state and a governing structure: necessary perhaps as protectors of your person and property and as providers of public services, but too often responsible for a host of evil acts as well. So, in honour of the star spangled 4th of July, I’ll spangle my web page with notes and letters from another one of my singable English translations of the great French singer-songwriter, Georges Brassens: <i>La Mauvaise Réputation</i> (literally “the bad reputation”), which I translated as <i>The Lousy Reputation</i>.
It’s a cheery hymn to non-conformity. I took some liberty in replacing
the 14th of July (Bastille Day, or the French National Holiday) with the
4th of July (American Independence Day), but otherwise I managed to
stick pretty close to the original.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="100" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/271554463&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe>
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEi7wmlULjysPK52KSMi7c7e9kT48vLaXRpPKY_QdlbeYd9z7a-L7eizF1VuF3j0FeyKIA1YAfpghFWmJR4aKxZPAAKj9IfrMq8yIr_yZFFdLtkiEoKkDL8zEhqkwiGjDWxZ0Lb9epW2PH/s1600/Brassens_TNP_1966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEi7wmlULjysPK52KSMi7c7e9kT48vLaXRpPKY_QdlbeYd9z7a-L7eizF1VuF3j0FeyKIA1YAfpghFWmJR4aKxZPAAKj9IfrMq8yIr_yZFFdLtkiEoKkDL8zEhqkwiGjDWxZ0Lb9epW2PH/s320/Brassens_TNP_1966.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Georges Brassens in concert<br />
at the Théâtre national populaire, October 1966</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Here are the lyrics:<br />
<br />
<b>The Lousy Reputation</b><br />
a (singable) translation of <i>La Mauvaise Réputation</i>, by Georges Brassens<br />
<span style="font-size: 11px;">Translation copyright © 2013 by Moyshelé Rosencrantz - unauthorized reproduction prohibited</span>
<br />
<div style="width: 500px;">
<span style="font-size: 11px;"><br /></span>
In a small unpretentious town<br />
My reputation’s going down<br />
Whether I try to improve it or not<br />
They take me for an... I don’t know what<br />
No, I do not cause harm in any way<br />
As I carry on in my own sweet way but<br />
Your good neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
No the neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
Behind my back they all will call me names<br />
Except for the mute! It goes without saying<br />
<br />
On the day of the Fourth of July<br />
In my cozy bed I lie<br />
Trumpets parading along in the sun<br />
It’s just not my kind of fun<br />
No, I do not cause harm in any way<br />
By not listening to the buglers play but<br />
Your good neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
No the neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
All will point their finger right at me<br />
Except for the armless! But let it be<br />
<br />
When a poor thief crosses my path<br />
Chased by a citizen full of wrath<br />
I stick out my foot for a change of pace<br />
The citizen’s suddenly flat on his face<br />
No, I do not cause harm in any way<br />
Helping one poor apple thief get away but<br />
Your good neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
No the neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
Everybody will rush to pin me down<br />
Except for the cripples! It will be found<br />
<br />
No need to know my ascendant sign<br />
To guess the destiny that is mine<br />
As soon as a rope is suitably clipped<br />
Around my neck it will be slipped<br />
No, I do not cause harm to Smith or Jones<br />
Just because my road doesn’t lead to Rome but<br />
Your good neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
No the neighbors don’t like it when<br />
You follow another path than them<br />
They’ll all come see me hang without remorse<br />
Except for the blind! Of course!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Jx6dN6ANFajwZYO_Jai64CV5sGoV4UQLV8Fg3afC0GDAAXF6djQFXq06WPFjjvd0Qje6qg4kPCsiqcQR_RxIH_ljNKufLO_gKZSSvWe2vR3MuNd8KDGnfCxlpXOu-XUDVGnl4mWyq803/s1600/Uncle_Sam_Artists_Model_George_Eastman_House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Jx6dN6ANFajwZYO_Jai64CV5sGoV4UQLV8Fg3afC0GDAAXF6djQFXq06WPFjjvd0Qje6qg4kPCsiqcQR_RxIH_ljNKufLO_gKZSSvWe2vR3MuNd8KDGnfCxlpXOu-XUDVGnl4mWyq803/s320/Uncle_Sam_Artists_Model_George_Eastman_House.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of Uncle Sam by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Uncle_Sam,_Artists_Model_(George_Eastman_House).jpg">William Vander Weyde</a>, circa 1900</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you enjoyed this post, you might also like <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/the-gorilla.html">The Gorilla</a>.</div>
Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-22224399707055503222016-06-30T16:48:00.000+02:002016-07-08T13:42:24.388+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 2The second in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet Union to Israel (1927-1929). You'll find the first part <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html">here</a>. In this part, Lova makes it to a sanatorium in Georgia, earns some money, and prepares to steal across the border to Turkey.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMhJAExMsrXytaBh-yryijjXCAofTSHXO_orn-ugHBnLIMsMKnxeKbtXq4Y8oCOc5EELeHvyQC6vnBRgVTz1BJdr2vwsq0Ij4F1htdjc12VCBex-WeDqQcivNUd4oqlaYod8zX4ADXyCR/s1600/JewishBazaar_GilbertGrosvenor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMhJAExMsrXytaBh-yryijjXCAofTSHXO_orn-ugHBnLIMsMKnxeKbtXq4Y8oCOc5EELeHvyQC6vnBRgVTz1BJdr2vwsq0Ij4F1htdjc12VCBex-WeDqQcivNUd4oqlaYod8zX4ADXyCR/s320/JewishBazaar_GilbertGrosvenor.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jewish Bazaar, Russia - photo by Gilbert Hovey Grosvenor, 1913.<br />
Picture signs are for customers who cannot read</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Lova:</b> Now, about half a year before I left Astrakhan, they had held a big fair there, and by chance I met a man from Akhaltsikhe. We got to know each other, and he told me, “Stop by if you ever get a chance.” And that’s how it was. When I arrived in Akhaltsikhe, I walked around, I looked for him, I found him, and he found me a place to live in. I gardened a bit in the landlord’s garden, and that’s how I paid him for the rent and also for the food he gave me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdeJF6XvgCn-D4cSaFYtoYZufcLGhwym6qxQg-aOAexHYJrTfVEU9gcEXhJSSs38Jco1xv45NzznNX-2Tn2Oi0COCyJlql3Ytl4bjOndy-l86EtscQSgn6LRUWd_cUCm9ZeWAA4n3JvRp/s1600/Rabati_Akhaltsikhe_Fortress_Museum_09.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdeJF6XvgCn-D4cSaFYtoYZufcLGhwym6qxQg-aOAexHYJrTfVEU9gcEXhJSSs38Jco1xv45NzznNX-2Tn2Oi0COCyJlql3Ytl4bjOndy-l86EtscQSgn6LRUWd_cUCm9ZeWAA4n3JvRp/s320/Rabati_Akhaltsikhe_Fortress_Museum_09.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Akhaltsikhe, Georgia - <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rabati,_Akhaltsikhe_Fortress_Museum_09.JPG">Fortress and Mosque</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After work I would come to see the man whom I had met at the fair, who ran a tiling shop. He would tile in silver and gold. Once when I went to see him I met another man there, a construction engineer, and I asked him whether he worked there. I recognised him to be an engineer by his hat. In those days in Russia, engineers had a special kind of hat, with a green stripe all around it, so I asked him, “Are you an engineer?”<br />
<br />
He said he was indeed an engineer, working in Abast’umani, a small town with convalescent homes for tuberculosis patients, 18 kilometers from Akhaltsikhe, where he lived in a very pleasant house. So I asked him if I could find any work there. He asked, “Can you do metal work for construction?” I said, “Why not? They give me a plan, and according to the plan I’ll do whatever they want.”<br />
<br />
So he said, “If so, come, and you’ll get a job as a metalworker. They’re building a sort of a swimming pool there – a big reservoir.”<br />
<br />
I was very happy, so the next day I took a special wagon that takes you all the way to Abast’umani, leaving at one o’clock in the afternoon. We drove on, and arrived 18 kilometers later just before evening, or late in the afternoon – anyway, it was getting late. So I got the job with the building crew from the engineer, and he said “Come to work tomorrow morning.” So I said, “But I didn’t bring my suitcase. I wasn’t 100% sure that I’d get accepted, or that I’d like it here. I wanted to look around first.” So he said, “Ok then, go back to get your stuff, and come back tomorrow. You’ll start working a day later.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOK8Z2DF-4uewegO0m_j9AIB8x2H-wnYO6azS_dj9oKpvf0lllVuzKpzqplIVdBbXC3a_J05rsHYvtpbFl9PZ85Z2S-cvGasSbb-TEkrmIvK5MzAQzm_tHGCz59LCldAQLKJopIaUYjhA/s1600/Bundesarchiv_Bild_101I-001-0251-29%252C_Warschau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOK8Z2DF-4uewegO0m_j9AIB8x2H-wnYO6azS_dj9oKpvf0lllVuzKpzqplIVdBbXC3a_J05rsHYvtpbFl9PZ85Z2S-cvGasSbb-TEkrmIvK5MzAQzm_tHGCz59LCldAQLKJopIaUYjhA/s320/Bundesarchiv_Bild_101I-001-0251-29%252C_Warschau.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_101I-001-0251-29,_Warschau.jpg" target="_blank">Horse-drawn wagon</a>, Warsaw, September 1939</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Meanwhile, since it was late and there was no way of getting back, I decided to spend the night there. Only, there wasn’t any hotel to sleep in. In this place they only had private convalescent homes, and apart from that three big sanatoriums for tuberculosis patients. So for lack of any better option, I decided to lie down on a sort of a bench that I found among the trees. The whole town was surrounded by forests, and a stream ran through the middle, with small walkways made of wooden boards to cross it.<br />
<br />
As I lay there, I suddenly heard from the other side of the stream a loud commotion, and a throng of youths started running and singing. I decided to go to see what the commotion was all about. And it turns out it was a gathering of the Komsomol, the communist youth movement.<br />
<br />
So I asked the secretary there if I could maybe sleep in their club house instead of sleeping outside. And he said, “Why not? After the people here disperse you can lie down on one of the benches.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFp8cMOSdF38567gI14RwsXaOhG4WTCyeOM66Jh2t3nIsIFrZ5TEUpKIBw-C7Ra3Upt9BLkUln38g0tkH-bgnmHKB_fV88wUIC4z7I425vjbxmHiow1Tw0ZC3R6s_dpFAg-V0L8mN9F_O/s1600/abastumani2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFp8cMOSdF38567gI14RwsXaOhG4WTCyeOM66Jh2t3nIsIFrZ5TEUpKIBw-C7Ra3Upt9BLkUln38g0tkH-bgnmHKB_fV88wUIC4z7I425vjbxmHiow1Tw0ZC3R6s_dpFAg-V0L8mN9F_O/s320/abastumani2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abast'umani, tuberculosis sanatoriums in the Georgian mountains - the baths (from <a href="http://ourmanintbilisi.wordpress.com/2009/10/23/abastumani/" target="_blank">this blog</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was very glad about this. And after they all dispersed I did just that – I lay down on a bench, and was just on the brink of falling asleep, when suddenly I heard somebody there, quietly sneaking inside. Then I heard benches getting moved. In the darkness I kept quiet, and didn’t say a word. But early in the morning, I asked one of them who he was, and he said he worked in the sanatorium, a really great job. They give you food, and an apartment to live in. And the other one tells him, “Oh, working with the building crew is terrible. They have an enormous shack, and all of the workers are dirty. It’s crawling with all sorts of lice. I really can’t stand this work anymore.”<br />
<br />
So I turned to the man who worked in the Sanatorium and asked him, “Tell me please, mister, how does one go about getting a job there?”<br />
<br />
He answered, “What do you mean? You go to the medical work office, and there they have a special department, and you ask them. And they’ll tell you what there is to do. They’ll give you a note.” And he gave me their address.<br />
<br />
Nu, I went there just after eight o’clock in the morning, and I met the department’s secretary, and told him I wanted to work in the sanatoriums. So he said, “Fine, they need workers there.” Well, I kept working in these sanatoriums, first one, than another, than a third, for a total of eight months. Then I got two weeks’ holidays on the first of May. And I was supposed to return to work on the sixteenth.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNQXUXNSJFKW4xi1juJK18wxTt8UALAKVmX3PJKtToYhIahnr7oWxpvMG-xswZEwXmHv1cHXOjx-0DujteW2x55iIYdQNZI6Gy53ZFpjsKkxvexmVfVSd9dkz3xagTFFSt3v395W9pTWU/s1600/Abastumani+TB+Hospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNQXUXNSJFKW4xi1juJK18wxTt8UALAKVmX3PJKtToYhIahnr7oWxpvMG-xswZEwXmHv1cHXOjx-0DujteW2x55iIYdQNZI6Gy53ZFpjsKkxvexmVfVSd9dkz3xagTFFSt3v395W9pTWU/s320/Abastumani+TB+Hospital.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Abast'umani, tuberculosis sanatoriums in the Georgian mountains -</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">the sanatorium constructed in 1924, so presumably the one Lova worked on (from </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/theglobalfund/7248390776/in/photostream/" style="font-size: 12.8px;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But meanwhile, not even one of them knew what I was planning on doing, and why I had come there in the first place. On the evening of the fifteenth of May, I took some food, some underclothes, two pairs of underwear and undershirts, another knife, and a long walking stick that the Arabs call a “nabout”, and let’s see, what else did I take? Oh yes, I also took a compass and a map. And binoculars for seeing at a distance. I started to walk, and I could see quite a distance away, because the village was on top of a hill. About forty kilometers away, or rather thirty-six, you could see some snow. And I knew that right on the other side of the snow was the Turkish border.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM36rKZOlssA5g57MYxNbPbWtrx_Np61DGFMJA7Udg0I1p63GZN1ga1M4oOOKNVjenNiQtb_-vHmSun9VMsMTu7CyvttMUUQJ6ni0typ-_tOcE5V_C2xHLLps7p_4sMwTeXsM_91ob5Tcn/s1600/PosofMountains3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM36rKZOlssA5g57MYxNbPbWtrx_Np61DGFMJA7Udg0I1p63GZN1ga1M4oOOKNVjenNiQtb_-vHmSun9VMsMTu7CyvttMUUQJ6ni0typ-_tOcE5V_C2xHLLps7p_4sMwTeXsM_91ob5Tcn/s320/PosofMountains3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“And I knew that right on the other side of the snow was the Turkish border” -<br />
picture of mountins near Dugur, Turkey (nowadays Posof)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46SCmbE2uS_oFgynYV5gaIy1dcScY5PZQ-23hIGLHz4fRY3X1KX5Pb_RAkDVtoQQBxlJ0qsFuCaztL1xxQ_QhWFFX-g_EZjRoJ5aQZvLhVn3xcZWQ1trATnOQpEDYUK43tjHI08ZO-tb9/s1600/GeorgiaMap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46SCmbE2uS_oFgynYV5gaIy1dcScY5PZQ-23hIGLHz4fRY3X1KX5Pb_RAkDVtoQQBxlJ0qsFuCaztL1xxQ_QhWFFX-g_EZjRoJ5aQZvLhVn3xcZWQ1trATnOQpEDYUK43tjHI08ZO-tb9/s320/GeorgiaMap.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A map of Georgia showing Akalts'ikhe, Abst'umani and Posof (Dugur)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/07/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-3.html">part 3</a>...</b><br />
<br />
<br />Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-2279427672920769592016-06-27T17:51:00.001+02:002016-07-08T13:42:54.073+02:00My grandfather's exodus - part 1The first in a series of blog entries in which my grandfather, Arieh
Rabani (Lova Rabinovitch), tells his adventures walking from the Soviet
Union to Israel (1927-1929).
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>An interview recorded by my cousin, which I then transcribed and translated from Hebrew</i>
<hr />
<b>Lova:</b> My grandfather on my mother’s side, Shmuel Mevzos, was one of the richest men in the town of <a href="http://kehilalinks.jewishgen.org/mariampol/mariampol.html" target="_blank">Mariampol</a>,
in Lithuania. Apart from an ambition to get rich, he had an even
greater weakness with respect to Torah and to lineage. He had seven
children. Two boys and five girls. So whenever the time came to marry
off one of his daughters, he would drive to famous yeshives and choose
talented yeshive-boys with a good lineage.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_slgCB1sGzum9sd42lbOHGETFcwhJWYfXTjUkv-2ZOhTvwMecpLVQ2G16_P6iK5f32z-MsVKQpWBcbZE8kq4FX9_0N2B2kHlOLXxcFXxDKrnhKJ1tZBMhmiDtiH4URNPDMzJEiE_024I/s1600/VilkovishkSynagogue1926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_slgCB1sGzum9sd42lbOHGETFcwhJWYfXTjUkv-2ZOhTvwMecpLVQ2G16_P6iK5f32z-MsVKQpWBcbZE8kq4FX9_0N2B2kHlOLXxcFXxDKrnhKJ1tZBMhmiDtiH4URNPDMzJEiE_024I/s320/VilkovishkSynagogue1926.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">Vilkovishk Synagogue, 1926,<br />
photo by <a href="http://kehilalinks.jewishgen.org/yurburg/buracas.html" target="_blank">Balys Buracas</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That’s
how he married off my mother. My father was an excellent student at a
yeshive and already had his rabbi’s certificate. What’s more, he was one
of the descendants of the great genius rabbi <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mordecai_Jaffe" target="_blank">Mordekhai Jaffe</a>, may he rest in peace, also known as “ba’al ha levoushim”<a href="#lova1footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a>.
After my parents got married, grandpa wanted my father to become a
rabbi in Marijampole. He was very disappointed when my father decided to
become a businessman instead. Grandpa opened a candy and chocolate
factory for him in <a href="http://kehilalinks.jewishgen.org/vilkovishk/Shtetlinks_site/_.html" target="_blank">Vilkovishk</a>, a small town in Lithuania. That’s where I was born in 1905, on the evening of <i>Tish'ah b'Av</i><a href="#lova1footnote2"><sup>2</sup></a>.<br />
<br />
At the same time, my father began getting interested in all
kinds of studies, and in science. When he already had two children in
the house, he earned his matriculation certificate. Which wasn’t such an
easy thing for a Jew, in the times of the Russian Tsar Nikolai.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Akd7dGuAAjylz9ggUzfL_u3IUAcHgwUlJ8zHKzRZlODpZxhrL-8tHKHXOWdpzkqHWfu_E40slrAvYTDFf1NqOpEagpahNYoHPBJ2C9zLANZAVFSTwA6xjPTI2N5SKdXIiDuhdXJyk0fh/s1600/ChanaMevzos1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Akd7dGuAAjylz9ggUzfL_u3IUAcHgwUlJ8zHKzRZlODpZxhrL-8tHKHXOWdpzkqHWfu_E40slrAvYTDFf1NqOpEagpahNYoHPBJ2C9zLANZAVFSTwA6xjPTI2N5SKdXIiDuhdXJyk0fh/s200/ChanaMevzos1.jpg" width="131" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOFTU4M5334LjoTv-f_gROCSyBqFvK13ibxUn1QqPjJMrdMVwOsKA4UWm36s6LLevjsksqYQgPmUN9cFJeuUbcSm-9GFdiZEOFAdGNLVcln1s5XFa9j8ljXph2w0STX5kxe-GXUswLHcDj/s1600/YosefYehoshua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOFTU4M5334LjoTv-f_gROCSyBqFvK13ibxUn1QqPjJMrdMVwOsKA4UWm36s6LLevjsksqYQgPmUN9cFJeuUbcSm-9GFdiZEOFAdGNLVcln1s5XFa9j8ljXph2w0STX5kxe-GXUswLHcDj/s200/YosefYehoshua.jpg" width="119" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lova's parents:
Chana Mevzos and Yoseph Yehoshua Rabinovitch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
His business was going well, and he left Lithuania to move to
Saratov, a large city on the banks of the Volga. In those days, only
rich Jews were allowed to live in Russia, beyond the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pale_of_Settlement" target="_blank">Pale of Jewish Settlement</a>.
He opened another candy and chocolate factory there and got rich. And
even though he absorbed a lot of foreign culture, he remained a pious
Jew and a strong Zionist.<br />
<br />
From my earliest childhood, I absorbed a great love for the
distant land of Israel. As far back as I can remember, I always dreamed
of going there. When I was a little boy, I imagined that toys and all
kinds of wonderful things grew on the trees there. Or maybe that was
from my cousin’s stories. Maybe.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjno9LBim9M_6kQbkyL5B4p29kgzYMhjVbqb2o7a_315vnrJ49vutKzholb3W1MJ8nGtRKhj5ldbohFVxp2I-gAXk6gjjZs8n1TB3WW7vfPK0wLT9Nu3dvPzht7sSGZFWupFlwZKIHI0cXT/s1600/Vilkovishk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjno9LBim9M_6kQbkyL5B4p29kgzYMhjVbqb2o7a_315vnrJ49vutKzholb3W1MJ8nGtRKhj5ldbohFVxp2I-gAXk6gjjZs8n1TB3WW7vfPK0wLT9Nu3dvPzht7sSGZFWupFlwZKIHI0cXT/s320/Vilkovishk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption"><a href="http://kehilalinks.jewishgen.org/vilkovishk/Shtetlinks_site/_.html" target="_blank">Vilkovishk</a>, Lithuania</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I was a member of a Zionist children’s club called “Children of Zion”.
Then, when I grew older, I joined a youth movement, the “Young
Zionists”. I was fifteen or sixteen years old. We would gather together
in the synagogue, upstairs, in the section normally reserved for women.
Among us were children from Poland, Lithuania and Latvia, following the
war of 1914-1918. We learned a little bit of Hebrew, and the geography
of the land of Israel, and literature, poetry, and short plays. We
stayed in this movement until 1920 or 21 at the latest, and then some of
the members joined the “Pioneer” and immigrated to Israel, and wanted
to settle near <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deganya" target="_blank">Degania</a> A or B, but there was no land available. So they finally settled in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ginegar" target="_blank">Ginegar</a>.<br />
<br />
After the revolution, our life changed completely. The
government confiscated our factory, and we were left with nothing at
all. My father died in 1921. When I finished high school, I entered the
Physics and Mathematics Department in the university. But to all of our
great disappointment, meaning me, my brothers, and my older sister, they
decided one day to kick us out of the university, even though we were
good students, because of the great sin that we were the sons and
daughters of a bourgeois, rather than a proletarian.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhzvAwd9XRpgN1J_726Hib96v_FrX8JJc9gK5Qabq4eNUegpytb1ffLQYA4CoFHhyphenhyphenMSEC6GUDJml09D18XwzqX1oAMfKDzbJbKXADmyhDbmO4gRDjom0fxjxA3VRKlFmIbcyWUol8vaqR/s1600/RabinovitchFamily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhzvAwd9XRpgN1J_726Hib96v_FrX8JJc9gK5Qabq4eNUegpytb1ffLQYA4CoFHhyphenhyphenMSEC6GUDJml09D18XwzqX1oAMfKDzbJbKXADmyhDbmO4gRDjom0fxjxA3VRKlFmIbcyWUol8vaqR/s320/RabinovitchFamily.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">Rabinovitch family, Saratov(?), early 1920's<br />
From right to left, Sara Rabinovitch-Dimont, Abrasha Rabinovitch,
Yozik Kalender (Ama's son), Ama, Chana (Mevzos) Rabinovitch, Lova
(standing) and the sister of Ama’s husband</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So we left Saratov. We moved to Astrakhan, a city on the delta of the
Volga, near the Caspian Sea. And there I applied to the Arts Academy to
study drawing and sculpture. I sculpted two statues. One of Julius
Caesar, based on his picture in a history book, and one of Herzl, based
on a picture we had at home. I brought them both to the Arts Academy,
and the professors, as soon as they saw my statue of Herzl, they were
thoroughly impressed. They
told me the resemblance was amazing, it was a perfect likeness... of
Professor Spsulkokotski that is, the famous Russian surgeon. And so they
accepted me without an entrance exam. Me, I was very happy to learn
there. But meanwhile they found out from Saratov that I was the son of a
bourgeois, and again they kicked me out of the university.<br />
<br />
So then I decided to leave Russia forever, and somehow or
another to get to Israel. To leave Russia legally was impossible. So I
decided to steal the border over the Caucasus Mountains to Turkey, and
to continue until I got there.<br />
<br />
In August 1927 I said my farewells to my family, and left
Astrakhan by ship, heading towards the Caucasus Mountains. I reached
Baku, and straight away set about looking for work, and also asking
about the best way to get to Turkey. At the end I decided to drive to
Georgia, to Tbilisi, Borjomi, and Akhaltsikhe.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc4nEg6IQ_5yLax_G12kHzxvDeymCTbwGLT8ELEMxuzGEj7RqZUIqoheM6z7_B-8LB1ycSJY5eno_e6S6E9Pv4zcjIYcAKsJ6nL3mOgHZXCOG24wTgxKXycLy-6YHZchFKUZnyo7EazfJ5/s1600/TravelsInRussia.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc4nEg6IQ_5yLax_G12kHzxvDeymCTbwGLT8ELEMxuzGEj7RqZUIqoheM6z7_B-8LB1ycSJY5eno_e6S6E9Pv4zcjIYcAKsJ6nL3mOgHZXCOG24wTgxKXycLy-6YHZchFKUZnyo7EazfJ5/s320/TravelsInRussia.gif" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">Lova's itinerary through the Russia, 1905 to 1927</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Continued in <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-2.html">part 2</a>...</b><br />
<hr />
<div id="lova1footnote1">
<sup>1</sup> "ba'al ha levoushim" or “master of
clothing”, after his religious and moral books which he called the
“Levoushim” meaning the “clothing”</div>
<div id="lova1footnote2">
<sup>2</sup> an annual fast commemorating the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem</div>
Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-19719512349036399292016-06-24T22:21:00.000+02:002016-07-08T13:43:11.197+02:00Milenaa book review of <i>Milena</i>, by Margarete Buber-Neumann<br />
<br />
I’ve decided to save impressions of occasional books I read from oblivion. I won’t feign journalistic neutrality: I’ll shamelessly mix in my own experience and sensibility.<br />
<br />
I picked up <i>Milena </i>while browsing through the shelves of a local used bookshop, <i>L’ivre Livre</i>, on a pedestrian street of medieval Foix. As usual, I gravitated towards the sections on history and autobiography. My eye was on the lookout for anything to do with the Nazi concentration camps and genocide. I strongly dislike the word “holocaust” as it takes the brutal de-humanisation, shooting, gassing and burning of millions and raises it to the level of a religious offering – which is exactly how the Nazi leaders would like us to see it. The word “shoah” is inappropriate in that it is modern Israeli, whereas the vast majority of Jewish victims spoke Yiddish. The Yiddish word, “khurbm”, is too little known to be of use in everyday conversation. So I will stick to “Nazi genocide” to describe my small but growing library of books covering the period, mostly first-hand accounts by victims, with Primo Levi holding a place of honour.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1cHgeDQSVcnQl86gWAQHA-SL6s1OHBFjqVOV6iwVjuPLGOSfJzTEmrPh-AqJVXTn2K3UHSbMDU6Xr9LqR8Z_3oR-dC-fixlsXUaEEKST0Ixv4DmrzV3K0yR5MLc0eMs4yeeyAj5-cJPQl/s1600/milena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1cHgeDQSVcnQl86gWAQHA-SL6s1OHBFjqVOV6iwVjuPLGOSfJzTEmrPh-AqJVXTn2K3UHSbMDU6Xr9LqR8Z_3oR-dC-fixlsXUaEEKST0Ixv4DmrzV3K0yR5MLc0eMs4yeeyAj5-cJPQl/s320/milena.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">Milena, by Margarete Buber-Neumann</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEOnpVfY7zmfxCSql515Q0JGO79UuxARwr0qMNe8f_vtVQKla8eVQ-jSeggMCdMlv4h4jddG2xkEhfK7Z6PzycOZXHhsfA46YGYTcBuTX4v94ZTtXe6qvhdeF_sWN2dkc7wX4FYMnwdtyu/s1600/Kafka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<br />
When I saw the name of Margarete Buber-Neumann on the shelves of <i>L’ivre Livre</i>, I paused. I had been browsing the Internet for books that could be of interest a few months earlier, and recognised the name as that of a woman who had been a prisoner in both Stalin’s and Hitler’s camps. So I picked the book off the shelf, curious (like one picks a ripe fruit off a tree?). This French translation of a book first published in German in 1966 was indeed written by a German ex-communist whom had been delivered by Stalin to Hitler along with many other political prisoners in 1940, following the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. It recounts the author’s friendship, in the desperate conditions of the Ravensbruck concentration camp, with a certain Milena – who had briefly been Kafka’s lover, and who had kept up an epistolary love affair with him throughout the remainder of his short life. I delved deeper: Kafka had been one of my late teenage obsessions, and I had a near religious veneration for <i>the Metamorphosis</i> and <i>the Trial</i>. In little time, the book was mine.<br />
<br />
Milena Jesenská reached maturity in interwar Prague, a fascinating city in its period of greatest hope and worst deception. The country was experiencing its first period of independence after three centuries of Austrian domination. Strangely (for a Czech city), it was home to a number of highly original German-speaking authors, who lived in Prague as foreigners with hardly a readership, among them Franz Werfel (whom I know mostly for his book on the Armenian genocide, <i>The forty days of Musa Dagh</i>), and of course, Franz Kafka. Milena was one of a generation of young cultured Czech woman who found inspiration among both these avant garde German-language authors, and a loose group of burgeoning Czech poets, critics, artists and architects, and often served as a liaison between the two.<br />
<br />
The book captures in surprising detail the bohemian lifestyle of interwar Prague, all centred around Milena, who is passionate, enigmatic, generous, warm-hearted and naturally elegant. The richness of this life, and especially of the fruitful exchange between cultures – Czech, Austrian and Jewish – is delightful as it is short-lived and tragic. Milena herself ends up in an unhappy marriage, and emerges from it only by devoting herself to a sort of personal, popular, but very honest journalism. I was struck by the descriptions of Kafka himself – the dedicated office clerk, who, even at the age of ten, had tortured himself for hours by trying to find the best way to give a sum of money he had earned to a beggar without being noticed. He was in love with Milena, but horrified by physical love. He seems both keenly observant and childishly naïve, and his books certainly gain their power from this strange combination that permeates them.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIp90BLIdP1H6jClCG_HCrFU6_uS0yw2VkyXu942JjXrOJkyxCV1Zmw4-k64VEs9aZz_gF4TFUi4rbbslHSTWkSVewWBNAuV-gEO1Fas0paFUuzw6FOXM6D7UilpmRHnllArrOAN2J9trU/s1600/Kafka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIp90BLIdP1H6jClCG_HCrFU6_uS0yw2VkyXu942JjXrOJkyxCV1Zmw4-k64VEs9aZz_gF4TFUi4rbbslHSTWkSVewWBNAuV-gEO1Fas0paFUuzw6FOXM6D7UilpmRHnllArrOAN2J9trU/s320/Kafka.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">Franz Kafka in 1906</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I was also struck by Milena’s behaviour among the everyday horrors of Ravensbruck. Her rebellion lay simply in her refusal to become just another prisoner, but instead to keep her humanity and individuality throughout her stay in these horrid surroundings, and up to her death. She consistently broke camp rules in small ways, but small ways that could easily lead to a death sentence, and miraculously got away with everything she did. She seemed to stroll around the camp and take the time to salute her friends amiably, instead of marching senselessly from one task to the next like the vast majority of inmates. Her platonic friendship with Buber-Neumann was intensely passionate. For Buber-Neumann, Milena’s “little Prussian”, the very possibility of loving another human in the camp allowed her to survive, even during several weeks of dark solitary confinement with only a single chunk of bread to eat every four days. The description of the communist prisoners in the camp is pitiless, and that of the Jehovah’s witnesses as well. To Buber-Neumann, both of these groups made ideal prisoners for the Nazis, and helped keep the camps running smoothly as no other groups could have. They are completely at home in the utter lack of freedom the camp provides them, and stand in stark contrast to the lively, passionate Milena.<br />
<br />
<i>Milena </i>is a book which does its best to keep a woman whom the author loved out of oblivion. By writing down and sharing my own impressions of the book, I’m doing my small bit to help her in her desperate task. The time must be ripe to pick up my old copies of Kafka again, and re-discover the art produced during this brief period of sparkling life that inhabited Prague between the wars. And maybe, at the same time, to re-discover my easily excited and naïve self in those long forgotten late teenage years.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNol4afPNRbBNdKafibKGqZG13rfZExSmLchS5HRZO1xqay4uEXqShz2s4NCAYamwNgDyuPZJB3rpTRpBFqkpZkYv-Zaw9yBokyG2jZ1QMSq73jPKYFLmjtt8PCTT3koBcSnye0OtW2UEx/s1600/Buber-neumann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNol4afPNRbBNdKafibKGqZG13rfZExSmLchS5HRZO1xqay4uEXqShz2s4NCAYamwNgDyuPZJB3rpTRpBFqkpZkYv-Zaw9yBokyG2jZ1QMSq73jPKYFLmjtt8PCTT3koBcSnye0OtW2UEx/s320/Buber-neumann.jpg" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pencil sketch of <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Buber-neumann-web.jpg" target="_blank">Margarete Buber-Neumann</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-89849924022035120032016-06-21T16:15:00.004+02:002016-07-08T13:43:20.322+02:00Avek di yunge yornIf ever there was a Yiddish song that proved the Jewish people were
influenced by Ukranian folk songs, this must be it. The theme is
characteristic of folk songs: "My youth has fled. Oy vey. And I didn't
even carpe diem!" The melody is so typical of Eastern European folk
songs, that it's almost strange to hear it sung in Yiddish. You'd expect
it to be sung by three lovely young Ukranian peasant girls, dressed in
beautiful white dresses embroidered with red, blue and yellow patterns,
smiling brightly, and singing in perfect harmony with nasal voices
(apparently, singing through the nose helped project the sound farther
out to the wedding guests in the days preceding amplifiers and
microphones). Anyway, here it is, with my best attempt at a nasal
folksinger's voice.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="100" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/270173215&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe>
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<table border="0" class="paddedTable"><tbody>
<tr><td width="33%">Over the hill, across the hill</td><td width="33%">Afn barg, ibern barg</td><td class="yiddish" width="33%">אױפֿן באַרג, איבערן באַרג</td></tr>
<tr><td>Doves are flying in pairs</td><td>Flien toybn porn</td><td class="yiddish">פֿליען טױבן פּאָרן</td></tr>
<tr><td>I haven't yet known any pleasure</td><td>Kh'hob nokh keyn nakhes nit gehat</td><td class="yiddish">כ'האָב נאָך קײן נחת ניט געהאַט</td></tr>
<tr><td>And already my youth is gone</td><td>Avek mayne yunge yorn</td><td class="yiddish">אַװעק מײנע יונגע יאָרן</td></tr>
<tr><td><hr />
</td><td><hr />
</td><td class="yiddish"><hr />
</td></tr>
<tr><td>Harness the black horses my brothers</td><td>Shpant zhe brider di shvartse ferd</td><td class="yiddish">שפּאַנט זשע ברידער די שװאַרצע פֿערד</td></tr>
<tr><td>And let us run and travel</td><td>Un lomir loyfn, forn</td><td class="yiddish">און לאָמיר לױפֿן, פֿאָרן</td></tr>
<tr><td>Maybe I'll manage yet to overtake</td><td>Efsher vel ikh nokh deryogn</td><td class="yiddish">אפֿשר װעל איך נאָך דעריאָגן</td></tr>
<tr><td>My young years</td><td>Mayne yunge yorn</td><td class="yiddish">מײַנע יונגע יאָרן</td></tr>
<tr><td><hr />
</td><td><hr />
</td><td class="yiddish"><hr />
</td></tr>
<tr><td>I met the young years</td><td>Kh'hob bagegnt di yunge yorn</td><td class="yiddish">כ'האָב באַגעגענט די יונגע יאָרן</td></tr>
<tr><td>On the wide bridge</td><td>Af dem breytn brik</td><td class="yiddish">אױף דעם ברײטן בריק</td></tr>
<tr><td>Years, years, come back again</td><td>Yorn, yorn, kert zikh um</td><td class="yiddish">יאָרן, יאָרן, קערט זיך אום</td></tr>
<tr><td>Even if only as guests</td><td>Khotsh in gest tsurik</td><td class="yiddish">כאָטש אין געסט צוריק</td></tr>
<tr><td><hr />
</td><td><hr />
</td><td class="yiddish"><hr />
</td></tr>
<tr><td>No, no, we won't go</td><td>Neyn, neyn, mir veln nit geyn</td><td class="yiddish">נײן, נײן, מיר װעלן ניט גײן</td></tr>
<tr><td>Who would we go back for?</td><td>S'iz nito tsu vemen</td><td class="yiddish">ס'איז ניטאָ צו װעמען</td></tr>
<tr><td>You shouldn't have</td><td>Host undz nit gezolt</td><td class="yiddish">האָסט אונדז ניט געזאָלט</td></tr>
<tr><td>Humiliated us in your youth!</td><td>Yungerhayt farshemn</td><td class="yiddish">יונגערהײט פֿאַרשעמן</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzWRTN3tMvPBkLRSfzIT2L9K1M4G2bgixOSi_TFHP2KDjmxJHAFUm5XgCkLF1aVQ1InTXeW6EtNSDWwA6zHjq-evizb6spMnQWRbcJZsZRrDbcBwuwjS0sElauzWFclCo0q92JMvzZiSp/s1600/avek_di_yunge_yorn_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzWRTN3tMvPBkLRSfzIT2L9K1M4G2bgixOSi_TFHP2KDjmxJHAFUm5XgCkLF1aVQ1InTXeW6EtNSDWwA6zHjq-evizb6spMnQWRbcJZsZRrDbcBwuwjS0sElauzWFclCo0q92JMvzZiSp/s320/avek_di_yunge_yorn_2.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">This
Jewish theatre photo, with a woman who looks remarkably like Molly
Picon, appears whenever I open "Avek di yunge yorn" in my <a href="http://www.videolan.org/vlc/index.html" target="_blank">VLC media player</a>. I've no idea how VLC selects the photos to show, but it's obviously not at random!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There's one Yiddish word in this song that's a bit difficult to translate: <i>nakhes</i> (נחת). The singer complains that he hasn't yet known any <i>nakhes</i>
and already his youth is gone. Beinfeld and Bochner's bilingual
dictionary translates it as "pleasure, satisfaction, delight". But
there's something more in the word <i>nakhes</i> - it shares a root with the Hebrew words <i>nakh</i>, ("resting") and <i>menukha</i>
("rest"). It gives off an aura of peace and tranquility, as well as
pleasure. It is also used to express pleasure and pride in somebody,
especially a child or grandchild, when he is well behaved, polite and
learns well, as in Sholem Aleykhem's famous ironic monologue, "nakhes
fun kinder" (pleasure from children). My <a href="http://blog.moyshele.com/2016/06/my-grandfathers-exodus-part-1.html">grandfather Lova</a>
often used to exclaim, "Oy shtik nakhes!" while we were gardening
together. Even though I spoke no Yiddish at the time, I remembered the
expression many years later. According to my mother, he used this as a
term of endearment to myself, as the person giving him <i>nakhes</i>, just as an American grandfather might call his grandson "honey". I chose to translate <i>nakhes</i> below as "pleasure", but this leaves out some of the nuances.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGISeEzFva0aeVWksTcZWEimWpbXreWM66Uu8dEOEtK49xS6JGSwOhKsJD0eHnDrXt7axnFjY9SfSpeg0n3cxeheBU7_w1Kl2JCqS7zMMs0BopVWLITA1vYQWIemmbxO5xtc4IcPOk__DS/s1600/primachenko-ukrainian-wedding-1966-500px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGISeEzFva0aeVWksTcZWEimWpbXreWM66Uu8dEOEtK49xS6JGSwOhKsJD0eHnDrXt7axnFjY9SfSpeg0n3cxeheBU7_w1Kl2JCqS7zMMs0BopVWLITA1vYQWIemmbxO5xtc4IcPOk__DS/s320/primachenko-ukrainian-wedding-1966-500px.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption"><a href="http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/maria-primachenko/ukrainian-wedding-1966" target="_blank">Maria Primachenko - Ukrainian Wedding</a> - 1966</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h4>
Acknowledgements</h4>
Many thanks to:<br />
<ul>
<li>Eleanor Chana Mlotek, for publishing the lyrics and music to this song in her anthology, "Mir Trogn a Gezang"</li>
<li><a href="http://www.freesound.org/people/foxen10/sounds/149024/" target="_blank">foxen10</a> for the horse's whinny</li>
<li><a href="http://www.freesound.org/people/tgfcoder/sounds/147349/" target="_blank">tgfcoder</a> for the doves cooing outside his window</li>
<li><a href="http://audacity.sourceforge.net/" target="_blank">Audacity</a> for making it possible for me to mix all of the tracks together!</li>
<li>Sholem Jozef, for reviewing and correcting my translation</li>
</ul>
Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-372346105388669878.post-21331107349467224482016-06-16T18:08:00.001+02:002016-07-08T13:43:51.481+02:00The GorillaI began translating the songs of the great French singer-songwriter, Georges Brassens, about 15 years ago. Here's one of my very first translations of Brassens into English - "The Gorilla"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMTFqCQHygXJPBHcDqranoepiRJ2BT-p4dF2oqDUhWSvxeVFPYRI0niOBm_NHS_ZwoA6s_ai-qFspgERnkzTJsODs2iUic3K9mmJGrQS8VbWKoArHH2-_cwe5L6ddhw-ymKj93JzHcnrG/s1600/800px-Gorilla_019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMTFqCQHygXJPBHcDqranoepiRJ2BT-p4dF2oqDUhWSvxeVFPYRI0niOBm_NHS_ZwoA6s_ai-qFspgERnkzTJsODs2iUic3K9mmJGrQS8VbWKoArHH2-_cwe5L6ddhw-ymKj93JzHcnrG/s320/800px-Gorilla_019.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption">Western lowland gorilla taken by <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gorilla_019.jpg" target="_blank">Kabir Bakie</a> at the Cincinnati Zoo July, 2005</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Here are the lyrics:<br />
<b>The Gorilla</b> a (singable) translation of <i>Le Gorille</i>, de Georges Brassens<br />
Translation copyright © 2012 by Moyshelé Rosencrantz - unauthorized reproduction prohibited<br />
<br />
Twas across the bars of a cage<br />
That our womenfolk used to gape<br />
Irregardless of their age<br />
Contemplating a powerful ape<br />
These ladies without any shame<br />
Even ogled a certain part<br />
Which my mother strictly forbid me to name<br />
Within this work of art<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
Suddenly the safe prison<br />
Where the animal used to strut<br />
Opened up—no one knew the reason<br />
I suppose it was badly shut<br />
The ape, leaping out of captivity<br />
Said “I’m going to lose it today!”<br />
He was referring to his virginity<br />
I think it is needless to say<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
The zookeeper looking befuddled<br />
Cried “Y’all must be out of your mind,<br />
This gorilla has never coupled<br />
With a female of its kind!”<br />
As soon as the feminine party<br />
Heard him pronounce this fact<br />
Instead of grabbing the opportunity<br />
They scattered like frightened cats<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
Even those who, I have to assert,<br />
Had been eying him earlier on<br />
Fled, which proves these incurable flirts<br />
Were only leading him on<br />
All the more groundless was their fear<br />
As a gorilla's hugs are firm<br />
Those of a man do not even come near<br />
As many a lady can confirm<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
Only two were now left in the premises<br />
Who had barely managed to budge<br />
A little decrepit old Mrs.<br />
And a young n’ respectable judge<br />
Seeing the crowd disappear<br />
The gorilla began to accelerate<br />
Wobbling and coming near<br />
To the old dame and the magistrate<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
“Bah,” the old lady sighed<br />
“That I can still excite desire<br />
It's extraordinary and besides<br />
I lost all hope such a thing could transpire...”<br />
The judge who was callous and sensible<br />
Said “that I should be thought to belong<br />
To the race of apes is quite impossible!”<br />
What follows will prove he was wrong<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
Now suppose, though I know it's not funny<br />
You would one day be forced like the ape<br />
To ravish a judge or a granny<br />
Which one would you choose to rape?<br />
If ever I were so unlucky<br />
As to find myself in the same boat<br />
I'm convinced you will not call me picky<br />
If the old lady gets my vote<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
But while the gorilla's technique<br />
In love has been equaled by few<br />
History has found him weak<br />
In both his taste and his IQ<br />
So rather than choose the old damsel<br />
Just like anybody else would<br />
He grabbed the judge by the ankle<br />
And dragged him into a nearby wood<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />
<br />
What followed is quite a delight<br />
But this tale must be cut in half<br />
Which is really too bad as it might<br />
Have given us all a good laugh<br />
For the judge in the moment of truth<br />
Yelled “mommy!”, began to cry<br />
Just like the criminal youth<br />
Whom that very day he condemned to die<br />
Beware the gorilla<br />Moyshele Rosencrantzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01261691897238973683noreply@blogger.com0