Old Bag, New Bag

Travel broadens the mind, they say. However, one of the less delightful aspects of travel is making sure you haven’t forgotten anything. I’m not talking only about essentials such as passport, documents, etc., but rather about the myriad other objects you have to have about your person to cover every, or almost every, possible contingency, mishap or disaster that may befall you on your travels.

Like the MoominMom, I generally have a fairly capacious handbag (what our American cousins amusingly call a ‘purse,’ which in my UK parlance is reserved purely for cash money). But since travel involves so many more of those potential misfortunes, the resulting increase in essential items requires a proportionately larger bag. After all, how can any self-respecting wife, mother or woman leave the house without an ample supply of dry and wet tissues, liquid for washing hands, spare underwear, basic makeup requirements, notepad and enough pens to make sure that at least one always surfaces when you thrust your hand into the darkness within to find one? Not to mention the secret zip pockets a bag must have for other utility items of sanitary hygiene, sticking plasters in case of accidental cuts and bruises, pills against headaches or other unidentifiable aches and pains, lists of medicines and/or addresses (OK, I’ll admit that in this day and age the smartphone can take the place of some of those lists, but the battery might run out at just the crucial moment, so it’s best to have a paper backup), chequebooks and, of course, two actual purses (for money), one for the currency of the country you live in and one for that of the country, or countries, you’re visiting.

And that’s not everything, but I don’t want to bore you quite to death. My story goes as follows: I used to have a large, white leather handbag for travelling, with dividers, pockets, zip compartments et al, but it eventually fell apart, and I invested a rather large sum of money on a genuine leather capacious black bag which looked as if it would fit the bill (see photo). However, when I started out on my latest journey, the black bag failed the ultimate test. It did not close neatly with a zip, but hung open, displaying its innards to all and sundry, and exposing my multiple weaknesses for all to see (and potentially take).

The situation required urgent remedy, and I decided that I would keep an eye open for an adequate substitute while in France, and to hell with the cost. To my delight, at the very first ‘brocante’ in the nearby village in rural France I came across a stall manned by a cheerful African gentleman displaying colourful bags of some woven fabric. A colourful woven bag had not been contemplated previously, but it suddenly seemed like a good idea (see photo). Upon inspection, the innards of the largest one proved to have a wealth of dividers, compartments, zip pockets and, best of all, a hearty-loooking zip to close the whole thing up to my satisfaction. After parting with the very reasonable sum of twenty euros, the bag was mine, and when put to the test easily ingested all the contents of the big black bag, which now languishes in hideous solitude. Sorry, old bag, but this old bag now has a new bag.

 

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‘The Art Thief’ by Noah Charney

Right until the end the reader is kept guessing as to the identity of the art thief behind the convoluted series of disappearances and reappearances of forged and genuine paintings. The two paintings at the centre of this novel are ‘White on White,’ by Kasimir Malevich, a Russian avant-garde painter, which was stolen from the Paris premises of the Malevich Society, and the ‘Annunciation’ by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, the seventeenth century painter, which was stolen from a church in Rome.

The events described in the book take us from a distinguished art scholar to an expert on security systems, the bidding process at Christie’s and the policing systems and methods of Italy, France and the UK. That’s all well and good, but how are we supposed to keep track of the various comings and goings of the stolen pieces of art, interspersed with ‘clues’ provided by obscure biblical verses? And why would a thief want to provide clues to the whereabouts of the missing art pieces? Not only that, but why on earth should one forged   replica be painted over another, and what does it all mean?

In my view the often pretentious style of writing in this book and the scenes and situations portrayed simply provide the author with an opportunity to show off his knowledge of art history, security systems and other aspects of the high cost of art in the world today. In between all this, the reader is required to exercise a little bit of linguistic detective work to decipher the occasional conversations in Italian and French. What for, I hear you ask. You may well ask. I think this is all part of the author’s need to show off his knowledge, which is admittedly extensive, of the various subjects.

The portrayal of the characters involved also leaves much to be desired. The bumbling, overweight French detective is more concerned with the food on his plate than finding the missing art work, and the lugubrious British detective does not bring a lot of credit to Scotland Yard’s Art and Antiquities Department, though we are given an interesting insight into his private domestic life and the depressing way of life of the ordinary Londoner. Its all so depressingly stereotypical.

All in all, this book could have contained the seeds of an interesting story, but instead it gets involved in ever-more-complicated tricks and attempts to obscure the trail. I have a sneaking suspicion that the author had his eye on having the story somehow picked up by Hollywood. If it does I hope some scriptwriter manages to sort out the story line to get it to make sense.

Not Getting Any Younger

 

Although in my mind I’m still the eager, naïve 22 year-old who came to Israel to work and study (and get away from the depressing climate and weedy men of the UK), I have to face the fact that time has not passed me by. I’m constantly getting messages from my body telling me ‘that’s enough,’ ‘time to sit down for a while,’ ‘don’t overdo things,’ and especially from my back, which is taking its revenge on me for having neglected it for all these years.

While at school I avoided gym and physical exertion of any kind, in my forties I started exercising and have continued to do so on an almost daily basis ever since. It may have helped as I still have the use of my arms and legs, which is something to be thankful for at my advanced age (76), but the messages from my body keep coming thick and fast.

I do what I can to assuage my miserable muscles. When I start an intensive cooking session, e.g., on a Friday afternoon when my entire family (15 in all) is coming for dinner I enclose myself in a special back support belt (I always think of Abraham ‘girding his loins’ when I put it on). I have a special high chair in the kitchen so that I can sit at the sink when I peel and cut vegetables. I saw it at a friend’s house and immediately demanded one for myself. This entailed my other half taking a trip to a part of Israel which we had never visited before, but he came back with the precious object, and it has served me faithfully ever since. And in order to follow the instructions of the physiotherapist whom I consulted about my back pain I rest for twenty minutes in between half hour cooking sessions. Approximately.

If that were all, I could consider myself fortunate, but I’m afraid that my mind seems to be developing a mind of its own. It has taken to deciding what is important and what is not. Hence, I managed to find myself on holiday abroad without such basic essentials as toothbrush and sunscreen. But I console myself with the thought that those things can easily be bought at the nearest pharmacy, which is not the case with regard to prescription medicines and a disk-on-key with essential material, which has been known to happen.

There was a time when going on a journey overseas was a hazardous affair, involving tearful departures and the possibility of untoward events. Today, however, most people seem to think there’s nothing to it. They hop on a plane and fly off to all kinds of exotic and unfamiliar destinations without batting an eyelid. For me, however, it involves getting out my packing list and checking it time and again. And still I forget things. I have worked out the reason why this happens (too many things to think about), but that is no consolation. My mind as well as my body is showing signs of wear and tear. I’m beginning to wonder whether it isn’t perhaps time to just give up, stay at home, put my feet up and take up knitting.

‘The Journey Back From Hell; Conversations with Concentration Camp Survivors’ by Anton Gill

Although published thirty years ago, this book is at least as relevant today as it was when it first appeared. As the survivors of concentration camps grow old and die it is more important than ever today to have their memories and first-hand accounts on record.

These in-depth conversations were held with individuals who experienced one or more of the Nazis’ concentration camps. Although the author is not a trained psychologist,. he has managed to gain the survivors’ confidence and elicited from them detailed accounts of the mental and physical ordeals they underwent, giving them in their own words, without unnecessary embellishment or analysis. As we read these accounts we feel that we are hearing their genuine voices as they speak openly and honestly about their experiences in the camps. These accounts are often preceded by descriptions of life in the ghettos or in hiding before capture and transport ‘east.’ In many cases the concentration camp experience is rounded off with a forced march, the infamous ‘death march’ (of which there were many) to another camp or undefined destination, as the Germans sought to escape the advancing Allied forces.

The first third of the book comprises a detailed historical account of the circumstances around the establishment of the concentration camps, the way they were built, and the method of their functioning, in all their horrific and inhuman detail. The research that has obviously gone into this section of the book is impressive in its attention to the specifics of the running of the camps as well as the results of psychological studies of survivors.

Several hundred individuals were interviewed, mainly in the UK, the USA and Israel, and each and every one had a unique tale to tell, even though certain elements of their ordeal remained consistent between them. All in all, it makes one wonder at the capacity of the human being to endure suffering, both physical and psychological, and adapt to the most monstrous conditions.

Almost all the survivors attribute their survival to sheer luck – having been in the right place at the right time, or not having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Many, if not all of them, saw close relatives being taken away or abused, and then comes the laconic phrase “I never saw them again.” In only one case is an interviewee reported as having burst into tears. The brutality and dehumanizing processes endemic in the camps, with senseless forced labour as well as work on behalf of the German war effort, beatings, endless roll-calls and systematic starvation meant that in many cases people were unable to grieve or express any emotion at the time. Some people said that they were able to grieve only after liberation, and one person says how pleased he was to find himself crying at a funeral some time afterwards. Another described being amazed to the point of laughing at the sight of a funeral for a single person, with a casket, flowers and somber music, after having seen piles of bodies cast aside like so much trash.

Not all the interviewees were Jews. Members of the French, Polish and even Italian resistance movements who had been incarcerated in camps were also asked to share their memories. Their experiences may have been slightly less horrendous than those of the Jews, but they were still subjected to forced labour and starvation diets. They were less likely to be sent to the gas chambers, however. Nonetheless, they did not escape the emotional and physical scars of their time in the concentration camps.

Family ties or those of friendship often helped people to endure and to simply stay alive in the camps rather than just giving up, becoming a ‘mussulman,’ and losing the will to live. In many cases the association with others from similar backgrounds or who came from the same country and shared the same language formed a bond of fellowship, which helped them survive the ordeal. The sense of a shared past has also caused many after the war to seek out the companionship of others who have undergone the camps, attesting to their sense of alienation from anyone who ‘wasn’t there.’

Some survivors found religion, while others rejected it. In the final event, what seems to have got them through the terrible ordeal was a combination of chance, physical and mental fortitude and small lapses in the efficiency of the Germans’ dreaded killing machine.