A Trip to Troyes

 Several years ago I was told that I really ought to visit the French town of Troyes (pronounced ‘Trois,’ like the number three in French), since it is a charming mediaeval town. It is also the birthplace of Rashi, the great twelfth century commentator on the Bible and the Talmud, whose is known by the acronym of his full name, Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki.

Finally, after many years of spending our summers in France, we finally managed to make the trip to the east, going towards the border with Switzerland, to the Champagne region, where Rashi lived (1040-1105). Having read Maggi Anton’s trilogy about Rashi’s daughters (he had no sons), I was especially curious to see what the place was like.

I was not disappointed. The old part of Troyes is indeed charming, with its half-timbered, or even full-timbered, old houses, some of which seem to be about to collapse, while others are in a relatively good state. Many buildings date back to the twelfth century, and some are still in use as private residences, restaurants, or cafes. Some contain institutions of various kinds, such as the Rashi (spelled Rachi in French) Institute and Cultural Centre, or the Museum of Ancient Tools and Musical Instruments. Everything is within walking distance, and the open, tree-shaded squares are full of restaurants and cafes, a veritable tourist’s paradise.

The town is a mixture of ancient and modern buildings, with stores such as H&M and Etam in the street adjacent to the narrow ancient roads where Rashi and his contemporaries once walked. I didn’t see a McDonald’s, but that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t one there somewhere. The town has expanded into the surrounding countryside, so that the vineyards that allegedly were once tended by Rashi and other local vintners have been supplanted by commercial and industrial buildings. Nonetheless, the drive there took us through beautiful French countryside, which may well have remained unchanged since Rashi’s time.

In addition to the building that commemorates Rashi, Troyes has other sites of interest. The town has several ancient churches, and its enormous cathedral, which also dates from the twelfth century, is one of the grandest I have ever seen. Its Gothic architecture is beautifully preserved, and its stained-glass windows are on a par with any to be found in Chartres or elsewhere. Outside the cathedral is a plaque that was installed there in 1929 to mark the five hundred-year anniversary of the visit there by Joan of Arc. The plaque declares that in 1429 Joan arrived in the town, accompanying Charles VII en route to Reims, and that the townspeople spontaneously acknowledged him as their legitimate king in that cathedral.

In addition to a plaque in French and English explaining who Rashi was and what he did, a black plaque is affixed to the wall outside Maison Rachi, where Rashi’s bouse once stood, stating in gold letters (in French): “The French Republic pays its respects to the victims of racist and anti-Semitic persecutions, and of the crimes against humanity committed under the de facto authority of the so-called ‘Government of the French State’ (1940-19944). We will never forget.”

I had wanted to conclude our visit by drinking a glass of champagne as I toasted Rashi, but somehow it didn’t work out.

 

‘What Language do I Dream in?’ by Elena Lappin

 

As a bilingual speaker of Hebrew and English as well as having some knowledge of French and German, I was intrigued by the title of this book. But the beginning is something of a surprise, as the author starts by describing a dramatic phone call which changed the course of her life and shook the very foundation of her knowledge of who she was and where she came from.

Speaking in Russian, the person at the other end of the line told her that the man she had known as her father all her life was not her real father, and that the man who had fathered her had been an American living in Moscow working as an undercover agent for the Soviet Union.

At that point the author starts to describe her life as a child growing up in Czechoslovakia, with her mother and the man she thought was her father but who, it later transpired, had married her mother when Elena was two years old, and had taken the two of them to live with him in Prague. Sincce both her parents had grown up in Russia, it was Russian that was the language spoken in their home. However, Elena’s early years and initial education were all in Czech, and that was her first and main language, or so she thought.

Interweaving stories and memories of her happy childhood in Prague, with occasional visits to her grandparents in Moscow, Elena relates how she immersed herself in Czech literature and culture, and how she appreciated and loved the ancient city of Prague itself. Thus it came as quite a shock to her at the age of sixteen when her parents moved to Hamburg, requiring them all – parents, Elena, and her younger brother Maxim – to learn a new language. Elena’s father worked as a translator and for him in particular the transition was not an easy one, but he was able to find work in a factory, translating technical texts and marketing material from German into Russian.

Like many Jewish families from eastern Europe and Russia, Elena’s family originally came from a small village in Ukraine, eventually gravitating to the city of Moscow. Much later in her life she discovered that most of her grandfather’s family had emigrated to the USA in 1914, just before the Russian Revolution, and that most of them had prospered there. Her paternal grandfather was the only one who had returned to the USSR together with his wife, and had made his life there.

The transition to a German-speaking environment was not easy for Elena, but she apparently adapted well to the language and the different attitudes and outlooks of her fellow-students, and even embarked on her undergraduate studies at the university of Hamburg. However, she found the atmosphere and subject matter (linguistics) unappealing, and decided to move on, ending up in the USA. In the course of her high-school studies Elena had applied herself to learning French and English, even spending time as an au pair in France and England, so that her knowledge of several languages enabled her to work in translating, editing and other spheres associated with publishing, as well as to continue with her linguistic studies.

After getting married and having children, Elena and her husband spent several years in Canada and the USA, eventually settling in London. It is from there that she has conducted the extensive genealogical research that has enabled her to trace the trajectory of her family across continents and cultures. The final segment of the book details how Elena has pursued the complex history of her family by combing through various archives and research sites, including that of the FBI, which held a dossier on her grandfather.

Most of the book is written in a lively and entertaining style, though I must confess I found the final segment somewhat tedious. But without a doubt, the author has made the most of her checkered linguistic history, and is still unable to decide which language she dreams in.

Things You See in France

It seems that no matter where one roams, we Brits still hanker for the taste of home. And although for each one of us those tastes may vary, the sum of hankering adds up to a general yearning which cannot be denied. And so it came about that somewhere in the depths of rural France, in a village so small and insignificant that it does not register on the GPS navigation built into our very modern rental car, we came across the British Market Stall. Within the rather unprepossessing walls of what was apparently once a barn attached to a large house are shelves stacked and stocked with all the goodies for which British palates yearn.

 Thus, our astonished gaze encountered extensive supplies of genuine Heinz Beanz (spelt thusly on the sky-blue tins), Birds’ custard powder, cream crackers, genuine Scottish shortbread, as well as fruit cakes (both with and without icing), and an enormous fridge stocked with classic British cheeses, sausages, and many other goodies. You can even find genuine curry powder, as the curry has become the staple food of most of the British population, as well as digestive biscuits, Hobnobs, and many other items intended to delight the expat Brit in self-imposed exile in the alien fields of France.

 The welcoming owners, Cris and Andy, who also run a gite (self-catering B&B), do a weekly run in their truck to the UK to stock up on all the foodstuffs which their customers crave, and are even prepared to try to meet any special request that may be presented to them. Just to enter their establishment and encounter one’s compatriots and hear the accents of ‘home’ is an enjoyable and heart-warming experience in itself.

 

 

Most mornings, in order to buy the fresh baguette which is an indispensable part of our French breakfast, we have no choice but to drive to the next village, some ten kilometers away, and frequent the local boulangerie-patisserie, where baguettes are ranged in rows and an eye-watering assortment of little cakes lurks beneath the glass-fronted counter. But at the entrance to this village one is confronted by a large and rather imposing statue of a sphinx. No, we’re not back in Egypt, but rather passing the studio of a local sculptor. Nonetheless, it is at first startling but then almost reassuring to find this echo of the ancient past guarding the entrance to a French village. Whatever next? one wonders. By now we have become accustomed to the sight, but it did come as something of a shock on our first sighting of it.

 

Since France is the country of culinary delights, it is incumbent on anyone staying for any period of time in the country to partake of its delicacies. Our excursions to local restaurants generally provide us with a reasonably-priced but not very exciting ‘plat du jour’ which, while enjoyable, does little to titillate the senses. This was not the case, however, when we ventured a little further afield, to a restaurant called ‘Le Viaduc.’

Set in wooded hills and overlooking the viaduct built in the 1890s by none other than M.Eiffel himself, the restaurant is a very different proposition from the run-of-the-mill eating establishments to be found in the region. Simply to enter the restaurant is to experience an aesthetic shock, with flower arrangements on the tables, and a spectacular view from the panoramic windows of the wooded hills and the viaduct, on which a train still runs daily. The tables are set with loving care and even each course of the ‘menu du jour’ is an aesthetic as well as a culinary delight. The ‘pièce de resistance’ was the dessert, which combined a tartelette bedecked with seasonal fruits and a delicate strawberry sorbet, all arranged on a plate which in itself constituted an artistic achievement. It seemed a shame to eat it, but it certainly was delicious.

 

‘A View of the Harbour’ by Elizabeth Taylor

I bought this book, which was originally published in 1947, through Bibliophile, a company which buys remaindered books of all kinds in bulk, then offers them for sale at greatly reduced prices by means of a monthly journal containing summaries of each book, which is sent out to subscribers. I always enjoy reading its contents, and have often succumbed to the temptation to buy one or more of its wares.

I cannot deny the fact that the name of the author intrigued me. But this is not the Elizabeth Taylor the famous film star but a very English, very skillful, writer who describes life, manners and mores in Britain in the period just after WWII. About a year ago I wrote here about another book of hers, ‘Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont,’ describing life in a seedy London hotel which serves as a retirement home for genteel English ladies whose ‘golden years’ are less golden than they might have been expected to be.

The present book looks at a very different mixture of characters: the various inhabitants of a seaside town on the English coast, and the interactions between them. Here, too, the little world the author portrays is revealed to us in all its colourful variety, both social and psychological. In fact, one could say that were Jane Austen to descend from on high and resume her humorous and perceptive accounts of the interior and exterior lives of individuals living in post-war Britain, she might well have written this novel.

All the niceties of middle-class English life are portrayed here in language that flows easily and without pretentiousness, giving the reader an account of life as it is lived in a small town, with all the provincial prejudices, preservation of the proprieties, friendships, courtships and even decline and eventual death that are characteristic of any small, enclosed society. While the narrative jumps from one character to another, the reader is exposed to insightful comments, sometimes affectionate, sometimes sardonic, but always entertaining.

Certain characters come more vividly to life than others, and the author obviously bears a particular affection for frumpish Beth, whose domestic life is governed mostly by the life of her imagination as she writes yet another novel, and is totally oblivious to the relationship between her beautiful, elegant friend and neighbor, Tory (Victoria), and her husband. The relationships between children of various ages and classes and their parents are also described with a sensitive eye and pen.

Above all, though, it is the ever-present sea, with its harbour, fishing boats, seagulls, the changing rhythm of the waves, and lighthouse that dominates everything, bringing the inhabitants of the town together and forming a common bond between them.

 

Humans Without Borders

A chance remark made by one of my fellow-pupils in the weekly German-language class I attend in my neighbourhood retirees’ club aroused my curiosity. Thus I learned about the activities of a group of Israelis who have made it their mission to assist Palestinians whose children require advanced medical treatment in Israeli hospitals. Like the other members of the volunteer organization known as Humans Without Borders (HWB), two or three times a week my fellow-pupil, Tuvia, who today looks more like a geriatric hippie than the bank manager he once was, goes to one of the military checkpoints around Jerusalem (e.g., Kalandia or Bethlehem), picks up a Palestinian child, with one or two accompanying parents, and drives them to one of the Israeli hospitals where they are treated for one of the various diseases that afflict the young Palestinian population. Apparently, because of the high rate of intermarriage in Arab families the proportion of children suffering from renal diseases is particularly great. The hospitals involved in the Jerusalem area are Hadassah, Sha’arei Tzedek and Augusta Victoria, and on an average day there are some twenty or thirty journeys to and from hospitals.

Thus, a child can undergo dialysis or chemotherapy, treatments which are not always available in the Palestinian hospitals. Sometimes they recover and sometimes they do not, and the cases which are unsuccessful are invariably very distressing for all concerned, including the Israeli drivers, who develop an attachment to ‘their’ clients and their families. Tuvia proudly showed me a photo he had been sent of a baby born to a Palestinian family after the death of the child he had been driving to and from hospital for some time. Tuvia has a B.A. in Arabic language and literature from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, so communicating with his ‘clients’ is not difficult. In most cases the families know basic Hebrew, and can thus overcome the language barrier.

Naturally, a project of this kind involves considerable organization and coordination. When the association was originally founded in 2002 by Canadian immigrant Larry Lester the coordination on the Palestinian side was implemented by Gamila Yafit Biso. Today, however, all the arrangements are made by means of various messaging apps. HWB is a non-government, non-political charitable organisation, and has some 200 volunteers from all sectors of Israeli and Palestinian society as well as from the world community. The costs of medical treatment are paid by the Palestinian Authority.

In addition to transporting Palestinian children in need of advanced medical treatment in Israeli hospitals, the key aims of the organization are to visit and support the children and family members during hospital treatment, secure medical devices for use by the children in their homes and provide practical support to these families and communities in their daily lives. A similar organization is based in the Tel Aviv area, with many more volunteers, who are often called upon to collect children from the Erez crossing to Gaza and bring them to hospitals in Israel.

HWB also organizes fun days and picnics for the children and their families, whether as a day on the beach or outing to a swimming pool, with food and entertainment laid on. HWB believes that it is every child’s right to grow and develop in a caring and supportive environment, and is committed to enhancing the safety and well-being of Palestinian children and their communities. By promoting direct, friendly contact between Palestinians and Israelis, and through its efforts to brighten the lives of the children and ease the anxiety of their parents, the organisation contributes to the fostering of greater mutual respect between the two sections of the population. The organization is a recognized charity, and donations may be made through the New Israel Fund.

(This article first appeared in the August 2019 edition of the AJR Journal)