The Age of Exodus

Although not a fan of thrillers or adventure literature, I was tempted to buy this book by Gavin Scott because its subject-matter combined ancient archaeology and the struggle to establish the modern State of Israel. An irresistible combination for me.

The year is 1947 and Dr. Duncan Forrester, Fellow in Archaeology at Oxford university, has returned to civilian life after participating in the pre-D-Day action aimed at eliminating senior German officers on European soil. Prior to that he had been assigned to training young Jewish men in what was then British-Mandated Palestine when it was feared that Rommel would be victorious and manage to conquer the entire Middle East.

A colleague asks him to advise a friend at the Foreign Office who possesses an ancient object, which turns out to be a Sumerian cylinder seal found in an excavation in the area now known as Iraq but formerly part of the Ottoman Empire. The plot thickens when the friend is subsequently found murdered in the area reserved for artifacts from the Ancient Near East in the British Museum.

Forrester is then asked to help protect the British Foreign Minister, Ernest Bevin, in New York, from a possible assassination attempt by members of the far-right Jewish resistance to British rule in Palestine. Negotiations are under way regarding the future of Palestine and British rule there, with Bevin and the Foreign Office fiercely opposed to the creation of a Jewish State and in favour of the Arab cause. Attaining access to the oil that is controlled by the Arabs is behind the British stance, as well as a firm streak of anti-Semitism.

Attempts are made on Forrester’s life durimg the crossing by liner and while he is in New York. The effigy of a Sumerian idol is stolen, and after being attacked again Forrester escapes on to a ship anchored in the harbor. Using his extensive nautical knowledge, Forrester helps to save the ship from sinking,and get to its destination in southern France. There he is taken to a building holding Jewish refugees seeking to get to Palestine in the framework of the illegal immigration known as Aliya Bet. Shocked by what he has seen and heard, Forrester’s sympathies shift to the Jewish side, and he does what he can to further their ambitions.

The mysterious murders of British diplomats, the uses and abuses of archaeological artifacts, and the struggle for the Jewish State are all tied together neatly, bringing the book to a satisfactory conclusion. History has proved that Forrester’s instincts were right and the views and interference of the British establishment wrong, despite the suffering that has been caused along the way.

In the Village

Like many other villages in this semi-deserted area of central France, the population consists of a mix of old and new, native and foreign. I’ve been told that it was once a thriving place with shops of various kinds and even a cafe, but now there is no sign of its former commercial activity, and it is purely residential. However, it still has an imposing building housing the mayor’s office, a library and a central hall for public activities, serving as the administrative centre for several surrounding villages.

First and foremost among the residents are the farmers, whose holdings extend over the fields and meadows that can be seen on all sides. Their tractors and other farm equipment (hay-balers, trucks carrying huge quantities of hay, or even logs sometimes) scan be seen working in the fields and also sometimes on the roads. And the roads here are narrow and winding, so watch out if you’re thinking of overtaking one of those slow-moving objects (though they often move aside to let drivers of smaller vehicles pass). Many of these farmers live in one of the villages, so there’s rather a lot of coming and going during the season.

Many of the original residents are very old. Some have moved away to be near children who have moved on in search of work. Those that have remained can be seen hobbling to the boulangerie using their walking sticks for their usual baguette, or gathered around the grocery van that delivers essentials once a week and tootles it’s horn to summon the buyers. These old folk are usually courteous, even friendly, but it’s difficult to have a conversation with them as they speak a local dialect, and their lack of teeth doesn’t make for clear diction. Almost every day a van from the regional medical centre brings a meal on wheels to someone who is evidently unable to,leave his or her home.

There are still a few younger people, families with children, but these are few and far between. One large building houses an institution for children of various ages who have been taken into care. The staff consists mainly of young people who come and go, though there is a small core of permanent administrators. There are even one or two young families living nearby, but they keep themselves to themselves.

The small square housing the sixteenth century church (recently refurbished with metal tapestry windows honouring Leonardo da Vinci, but essentially deserted), contains a motley crew of residents in the summer, though the houses are empty for most of the year. One house serves as the site for a family gathering in the summer and at Christmas, too. It once housed the now-deceased parents and their children, who have all moved elsewhere. Yet when they decide to get together one family, with children and even grandchildren drive up from Toulouse, while another brother drives down from Paris. So they all meet in the middle, spend a few days or weeks together, reminisce about their childhood, and then go their separate ways again

One smaller house, which was once a bicycle-repair shop, was bought and renovated by a genial Australian, who has dubbed it ‘Maison Roo.’ He is usually here for part of the year, spreading bonhomie wherever he goes, but this year is stuck in Oz due to Coronavirus restrictions. Another French couple who live in the south of France bought a derelict building on the corner of the church square and did it up by themselves, being both handy and capable. They have turned it into a beritanle palace, with each room furnished in a unique and aesthetic way. This year they haven’t been a ale to come either, and we hope that all is well with them, and that we can all be reunited next year.

The monument to the young men from the village who fell in the two world wars may partly explain the dearth of local inhabitants. The many derelict and deserted houses throughout the region are gradually being bought up and refurbished by people from other parts of Europe (mainly the Netherlands and England), bringing a new sense of cosmopolitanism and intellectual interest to the region. Many of the newcomers are artists, writers, and people who have had enough of the urban rat race and are opting for the quiet life. It all makes for an interesting social mix when we manage to get together.

When in France…

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Whenever I’m in France, usually for a month or two in the summer, I do my best to read, listen to (and talk) French. I listen to the French classical music programme on the radio, where there seems to be rather a lot of talking. This usually consists mainly of names of composers and artists, or discussions about them, so I can usually get the gist of what’s being said. When the occasional, very brief, news broadcast comes on life gets more difficult for me. The announcers speak (or read) at a rapid pace, so I can hardly understand a thing.

This is where the written word comes to my rescue. Every Friday we buy the weekend edition of the national newspaper, ‘Le Figaro,’ which despite being Conservative comes with a plethora of supplements, which provide me with interesting and educational reading for almost a week.

The main section naturally consists mainly of material about French politics, which are somewhat beyond my ken. I dutifully cast my eye over the articles, but find it difficult to grasp the vagaries of the French political system. The articles which interest me the most are to be found in the various supplements.

The supplement which concerns the various French media (TV and films) details all the programmes of the week, and rarely contains anything of interest for me (we have no TV in the house). There is a fairly extensive economics supplement, evidently based on the ‘Financial Times,’ as it too is printed on pink paper. In this, thankfully, I am no longer duty-bound to attempt to interest myself, and so it is with great relief that I allow myself to set it aside unread. The rather brief culture supplement is full of interesting articles, and is a joy to read.

But the one that interests me most is the women’s supplement, which goes under the name of ‘Madame.’ The telling point here is that it is not called ‘Mademoiselle,’ and is hence directed at the older woman, I.e., moi. It is in glorious colour and is replete with photographs of gorgeous younger and older women displaying fashion, jewellery and makeup, as is only to be expected. But the latter half of the supplement is of greater interest for me, as it contains weightier articles on subjects that are of a more general nature,

Thus, there are several pages devoted to recommendations for various categories of books to read over the summer. Last week’s edition contained an article about how to treat adolescents in the family during the long summer holiday. This seems to consist of fairly obvious advice about being relaxed about dealing with them, and starting to gear up towards the approaching school year as the holiday starts coming to an end.

Another article which aroused my interest was one entitled ‘The Revolt of the Invisibles,’ and was about the double ageist and sexist discrimination against older women in Hollywood. Using the term ’quinquas’ (‘over fifties’) to define actresses of a certain age, the article describes the difficulty they encounter in finding employment in the film industry, and in Hollywood especially. I was intrigued to learn that there is a Center for the Study of Women on TV and in films at San Diego University, and that it recently published a study called ‘It’s a Man’s (Celluloid) World.’ Amongst other things, the study showed that the representation of men over fifty years of age in films and TV far outweighs that of women.

Some older women in Hollywood have formed an organisation to try to help their peers create and find suitable roles in the film industry. There is even a special section at this year’s Cannes film festival entitled ‘Women in Motion,’ devoted to the subject.

The local newsagent has been prewarned to reserve a copy of the weekend edition of ‘Le Figaro,’ with all its supplements, for us every Friday. That doubtless explains why she remembered us, even after an absence of two years. And so it is as if various forces have conspired to keep my French language skills in play and my mind entertained while I’m enjoying my summer holiday.

Trouble in Paradise

Having managed to overcome all the bureaucratic, technical and medical obstacles in the way of anyone wanting to travel abroad from Israel, we finally managed to make our way onto the plane taking us to France. For the last few years we have got into the habit of spending a month or two in the depths of rural France, staying at a spacious house set in a quiet village. Apart from the chimes of the nearby church clock, there is nothing to disturb the bucolic peace of the area.

until this year, that is. This year the regional authority has decided it is time to install fibre-optic cables and a new electricity grid underground. And that means digging up roads throughout the village, making huge holes and trenches to accommodate the new system. Each such hole or trench is neatly surrounded by barriers to make sure that no one falls into them.

one day in the distant future (perhaps even by this time next year) the job will be done and all will be serene once more. This year, however, all is anything but serene. Huge machines, reminiscent of space-age. Ontraptions, some painted yellow, others red or blue, are to be found all over the place, blocking access roads or even cutting them off completely. Huge piles of gravel and sand have appeared at strategic points (fortunately for us not too near our abode), and strapping men in orange overalls and hard hats emerge from around corners as well as lanes and side roads, whether on foot or driving one or another of those vehicles.

But all is not lost. The house is well-insulated, with double-glazed windows, so very little noise penetrates the cosy interior. The workmen seem to take a long lunch-break, as is the custom in France, and although they start work on the dot of eight in the morning, by four o-clock in the afternoon there isn’t an orange-clad being to be seen, and the monstrous machines are parked as neatly as possible at the sides of the roads and squares. That gives us four hours or more of peace and quiet to enjoy the little table and chairs outside, where we can have coffee and cake in the sunshine, and chat to anyone passing by.

Because that is the nature of French village life. Anyone who happens to pass, whether you’re out for a stroll or sitting outside, must be greeted and saluted for a little chat (preferably in whatever French we can muster). Also, when the occasional vendor of groceries, baguettes (five la baguette!) or meat comes by with his or her van, then toots their horn to signal their arrival, anyone within earshot gathers at the open aperture and buys what they can find, or even what they might need. That, too, is an opportunity for a little light conversation. For some people, particularly the elderly and less mobile villagers, that is the only chance they have to socialise.

it has taken us a few days to get used to our new-old surroundings. Unaccustomed to things not being in certain places (“a place for everything, and everything in its place”), we find ourselves constantly looking for our mobile phones, keys, pens, etc. In one instance a hearing aid that had been lost somewhere in the big town was miraculously found when we retraced our steps to one of the shops we had frequented several hours earlier.

people on the whole are nice, kind, good-natured and patient. Everyone is masked almost everywhere, both inside and outside. An alco-gel dispenser is waiting to be used at every entrance point. Social distance is observed almost everywhere, even in the checkout line at the supermarket. No one seems to be in a hurry, but that is the nature of life in this part of life. It’s gradually getting through to us, too.

The harrowing Thursday afternoon drive south from the Paris CDG airport together with the hordes of Parisians who were on the road at the same time, is already a distant memory. Thnkdully, we reached our destination with no harm done, though badly in need of a good meal and a good night’s rest. Praise be, there’s no shortage of either of those where we are now.