Times are hard at the moment in Israel, with a sense of impending doom hanging over us as the politicians continue to pursue their objectives at all costs. So for a bit of light relief one goes to a production of Mozart’s marvellous opera Don Giovanni in the Tel Aviv home of the Israel Opera. You settle into your seat, nod politely to the person in the seat next to yours and glance at the programme, Before the opera begins the usual announcements about forthcoming performances and turning one’s cell phone off appear on the screen that fills the entire proscenium. The next opera will be something new, an opera based on the life of Theodore Herzl, the visionary who gave birth to the idea of a Jewish State. A colour portrait of a pensive Herzl appears on the screen, followed by this text (in Hebrew), taken from Israel’s Declaration of Independence, and based to a great extent on the text of his novel Altneuland describing the new state as he envisioned it.
From the Declaration of Independence in accordance with Herzl’s vision:
The State of Israel will be open to Jewish immigration and the ingathering of the exiles; it will work to develop the country for the benefit of all its residents; it will be founded on the basis of the aspiration for justice and peace as described by the Prophets; it will adhere to complete equality of social and political rights for all its citizens without any differences on the basis of religion, race or gender. It will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture, and will maintain the places that are sacred to all religions. It will adhere to the principles of the declaration of the United Nations.
The audience breaks into spontaneous applause and cheering. It is a strange, almost other-worldly experience to find oneself together with another thousand or so respectable (and mainly elderly) citizens roaring approbation of an abstract text in Hebrew on a huge screen. So, it seems, even at the opera we can’t get away from the ever-present situation which clouds the reality in which we find ourselves living.
The text disappears and the orchestra plays the overture, with Mozart’s brilliant musical insights into the human psyche, crashing chords denoting the fate that awaits the eponymous villain, the scales in a minor key that manage to create a menacing atmosphere and all the usual tuneful twists and turns with which Mozart delights us. This atmosphere continues throughout the opera, with dramatic development, delightful arias sung by beautiful ladies in elegant dresses, and no lack of erotic innuendo – both in the music and in the acting in this particular production.
We are drawn to and yet disgusted by the antics of the randy, amoral ‘hero’ of the piece, who unashamedly pursues every woman who happens to cross his path, regardless of their situation, trampling rough-shod over their emotions. And yet, despite ourselves, we find Giovanni’s insouciant lack of scruples amusing, and are delighted by the snappy interaction between him and his reluctant servant Leporello. We watch in hypnotized fascination as the nefarious lothario finally gets his just desserts and is punished for having killed the outraged father of one of his conquests.
No one wishes a similar fate for any member of the current government, yet there are some disturbing resemblances between the behaviour of some of them and that of Don Giovanni.
To my surprise (and shame), in my old age I have become an aficionado of cookery programmes on television. Of course, I don’t go for just any old cookery programme, I have my standards, after all, and my particular penchant is for those hosted by cooks, or chefs, who originate from England (or Ireland, Scotland or Wales), i.e., who speak the English language in a way that brings back memories of my childhood and youth.
I refuse to have anything to do with cookery programmes presented by hirsute male chefs whose arms are tattoed so much that one cannot see any flesh underneath, or by women whose long, curly locks of indeterminate colour dominate the screen and doubtless contaminate the food they’re preparing. Nor will I waste my time watching cookery competitions, as the whole concept of cooking in order to meet a deadline or beat one’s competitors is alien to me.
Another programme that gets my goat (i.e., annoys me) involves a popular singer/actor accompanied by a well-known Israeli chef who is considered an expert on far-eastern cuisine, and certainly regards himself as such. The sense of smug superiority the latter exudes is a complete turn-off for me. And besides, I have no desire to spend my time watching other people eat, and especially when they talk with their mouth full. Yuk!
No, the programmes I like to watch involve an aesthetic production in which an individual of edifying appearance, e.g., Jamie Oliver or Mark Moriarty (Off-Duty Chef), demonstrates how to prepare and cook items of food that we viewers can reproduce and put on our own family table. I feel an emotion that is almost akin to affection for those young men who are prepared to put their heart and soul into showing us how to prepare a whole meal, whether it is in one pot (Jamie again) or reminds us of our youth (Ainsley). And of course, I have tremendous respect for Mary Berry, who speaks the Queen’s (now King’s) English with an impeccable accent, looks delightful despite her advanced years, and makes preparing tasty dishes look easy and elegant. How I enjoy watching Jamie charm his way across Italy, getting recipes from nonnas (grandmothers), speaking Italian and then relaying the information to us.
Since I tend to watch those programmes when I’m getting ready for bed, or taking my post-prandial afternoon nap, I’ve begun keeping a notepad and pen next to my bed in readiness to take down any recipe that looks simple enough for me to attempt for my next cookery excursion. Of course, it also depends on having the right ingredients, and in my kitchen those are usually missing. By now, however, I have gained a few staples that would have made my late mother raise her eyebrows (teriyaki sauce, red wine vinegar, to name but a few).
The personality of the presented certainly plays a part in getting me to watch. I enjoy Jamie’s youthful enthusiasm and knowledgeableness about health aspects of the various foods, Ainsley’s almost Cockney-like Caribbean cheekiness, Mary Berry’s graceful dignity, and Mark Moriarty’s red-haired Irish charm.
Furthermore, recently I’ve been able to enjoy the new HBO series about that pioneer of American TV cookery programmes, Julia Childe, with a wonderful portrayal by Sarah Lancashire of her unique character and charm. The programme also gives us insights into the process of producing that kind of programme as well as into the private life of Julia Childe herself. A true delight for the eye and ear, as well as (almost) for the taste-buds.
When I was at high school and was required to read books by Jane Austen I did my best to find them interesting but failed dismally. The characters and situations she describes in her novels are very far removed from any situation I had ever experienced, and the idea that a young woman’s sole purpose in life was to find a wealthy husband seemed too feeble to be considered a suitable reason for existing. I was too involved in the ups and downs of my own twentieth century life to appreciate the limitations and concerns that overshadowed the way women lived in the eighteenth century, and I failed to perceive Austen’s perceptive analysis of human behaviour, and the manners and mores of her time.
So it was with suspicious curiosity that I embarked on reading one of Jane Austen’s later novels, one I had not been required to read while at school, ‘Northanger Abbey.’ The first half of the book describes in great detail the experiences of a young woman being entertained in the fashionable town of Bath, where life consisted of balls and social occasions of various kinds. The heroine of the book, Catherine Morland, is described as an innocent young woman who is eager to enjoy all the delights of fashionable society, while at the same time being unduly influenced by the lurid novels she reads. In fact, what Austen is doing here is poking fun at other – mainly female – writers, like herself, and especially at the tendency of young readers to let their imagination run away with them.
Thus, while staying with newly-acquired friends at their home, the Northanger Abbey of the title, Catherine imagines that all kinds of strange and wonderful events have taken place there, and even comes to the conclusion that the father of her friends has locked his wife up, or even murdered her – shades of Charlotte Bronte’s novel, ‘Jane Eyre’ (which was published several years later). On one level, the book is a homily on the way young women’s minds could be manipulated by novel-writers, and on another it is a parody of that self-same kind of book.
Naturally, as in every self-respecting novel, there must be the aspiration for love as well as disappointment in that sphere, in addition to entertaining encounters between clever young men and innocent young women, where in some cases the former poke fun at the latter, or in others seek clumsily and unsuccessfully to curry favour with them. Financial prosperity also plays a part in the way the characters relate to one another, and it is only at the very conclusion of the book, after innumerable ins and outs as well as ups and downs, and even a heart-stopping contretemps just before the end, that all ends well.
Setting aside the narrative style that Jane Austen adopts, which is inevitably coloured by the narrative conventions and speech patterns of the time as well as her own inimitable turn of phrase which even involves direct interaction with the reader, one cannot avoid admiring her ability to create credible characters, each with their own way of speaking, thinking and acting. It is not for nothing that her books, though limited to a time and society that is long gone, have endured for so many years, and today are considered classics of the genre.
Since my childhood in London I have enjoyed being able to read a newspaper that is delivered to my house every morning. In England this was pushed through our letterbox and appeared on our carpeted hallway floor. In Israel it is thrown onto our driveway from the car driven down the road by the delivery person. If I happen to be outside at the precise moment that she passes she puts it into my outstretched hand and we wish one another good morning, but on most days I’m still inside when her car goes by, and I go out to retrieve the paper from the driveway entrance a little while later.
Till recently, being able to sit down in the quiet of the early morning with a cup of coffee, a biscuit and the daily newspaper has always been a moment of leisurely pleasure for me. But at the moment that pleasure is diminished somewhat by the content which I find myself reading. We have been through difficult times in the past in Israel, with terror attacks, political unrest and even wars, and we have come through them all more or less in one piece, but these days the news items, the opinion pieces and even the letters to the editor fill me with dismay. There have been disagreements between various segments of the population in the past, but what has been happening in Israel and in the West Bank recently has gone beyond the concept of simple disagreement. A rift has opened up within Israel, and the tenor of the disagreement has taken a fresh turn, seeming to become an irreconcilable breakdown.
Essentially, what is now accepted as Israel within the pre-1967 borders is a democracy whose legislative basis is currently being undermined by political elements who reject the basic tenets of a democratic system, with the supremacy of the rule of law and the acceptance of the principle of government under a system of checks and balances.
And it is just those political elements who for the past fifty years have been involved in establishing settlements throughout the West Bank, imposing their views on the wider Israeli society, and involving Israel’s military might to maintain their supremacy there. Any Israeli under fifty has never known any other reality in Israel, but I and others like me remember that Israel was once a tight-knit society that was united in its sense of purpose. I remember the events leading up to the Six Day War and the existential threat represented by the Arab countries on our borders, with most of whom we have since made peace. I also remember the way in which the first settlers sought to impose their will on a reluctant government, eventually prevailing (Sebastia and others that followed), setting in motion a series of events that have brought us to the current situation in which resentful Palestinians kill Jews whenever and wherever they can and Jews retaliate, either by means of the official channels of the IDF or through marauding gangs of settlers who destroy Palestinians’ property and persons indiscriminately.
We have reached a sorry state of affairs and there seems to be no solution in sight to heal the rift within Israeli society. The perverted self-righteous indignation disseminated by Netanyahu serves only to exacerbate the situation. I wish that I could soothe my nerves by no longer reading the newspaper or listening to the news, but I refuse to take the ostrich approach.
My one consolation is the knowledge that my children and grandchildren are well, and that Israel’s intellectual and cultural institutions are still functioning. But there’s no guarantee that this situation will persist indefinitely given the current climate of repression and antagonism.
(French. published by Bernard Grasset, Paris 2017)
Anne Sinclair, noted French writer and journalist, has written extensively about the Holocaust and how it affected her family. In this book she focuses on the arrest and deportation to a prisoner camp at Compiègne of her maternal grandfather, Leonce Schwartz. He and his wife, Marguerite (Margot), resided in a comfortable apartment in a pleasant part of Paris. He owned a workshop producing lace, and their life was conducted along the lines of respectable residents of Paris, with bridge games, visits to the theatre, and a social life with friends and family.
Anne Sinclair confesses to having failed in her childhood to ask her grandparents about their experiences during the war, when Germany occupied France and persecuted Jews. In this they were aided by the French authorities, first in the area of the country under the Vichy regime, and later throughout France. To her chagrin, she did not find any record written by her grandfather of what he went through, but rests her account of what happened to him from versions written by others who underwent the same experience as well as the historical research of Serge and Beate Klarsfeld, renowned scholars of that dismal period.
First, she describes her visit to the actual site of the prison, Compiègne, which is now a military barracks, but found very little there regarding what her grandfather went through. She knew that the ‘rafle’ or roundup of reputable citizens of the Jewish faith, the ‘notables’ of the book’s title, took place on 12 December 1941, and that 743 Jewish men who were long-term residents of France and well-established within French society were arrested. They were taken from their homes at dawn that day and brought to the station to await the train taking them to the camp. Each arrest was effected by two French policemen accompanied by two Wehrmacht soldiers, and each man was allowed to take a small suitcase with a few basic articles. To their number were added another five hundred Jewish men who were arrested in the streets of Paris, with nothing but the clothes they happened to be wearing. This brought to one thousand the number of Jews arrested that day, in line with Hitler’s plan to ‘rid Europe of its Jews.’
In icy cold weather the men, most of them no longer young (Leonce was 63), were made to stand and wait for many hours without food or water until they were forced into the train taking them to Compiègne, which fortunately was not a cattle train and had seats. Anne Sinclair names the prisoners who managed eventually to write a record of what they endured, and it is on these that her account of what her grandfather must have endured is based. Like many well-established and assimilated Jews, Leonce and Marguerite had remained in their home despite growing anti-Semitic propaganda and laws introducing the forced registration and restricted movement of Jews.
Late at night the train reached Compiègne, a few miles from Paris, where the prisoners were beaten and force-marched to the camp which consisted of a few brick walls and bare earth on which the exhausted prisoners had no option but to lie. There were three separate camps there, one for French political prisoners, one for Russian prisoners of war, and one for Jews – which was where Leonce was. The conditions in the Jewissh camp were worse than those in the others, with no possibility of receiving letters or packages, terrible sanitary conditions, and starvation rations. Occasionally, the prisoners in the other camps would share some of their food with the Jewish prisoners, and eventually iron bedsteads with thin mattresses were provided for the Jewish prisoners. The glass in the windows was broken, letting in the cold winter air; the walls topped by barbed wire provided precious little shelter from the elements. As was the case in all concentation camps, prisoners had to stand for hours during roll-call and endure the beatings and insults of the guards. The filth and lack of hygiene in the camp led to outbreaks of disease and infestations of vermin, lice and fleas. Some of the detainees were medical doctors and did what they could to ease the pain and distress of the others, but without medicines or food there was little they could do. A handful of prisoners considered to be gravely ill were released or hospitalised.
With the passage of time the prisoners’ physical state deteriorated, they lost weight and their physical and mental condition brought many of them to the verge of insanity. Some of them were deported to the main French holding camp at Drancy and thence to Auschwitz, Many of those arrested with Leonce were distinguished intellectuals, members of leading French families, and men who had fought for France in WWI; the camp at Compiègne was termed by one of its inmates, Jean-Jacques Bernard, ‘the camp of slow death.’
For a long time Leonce’s wife Marguerite had no news of what had happened to her husband or where he had been taken, as she tried desperately to trace his whereabouts. She eventually found out where he was and joined others making their way to Compiègne. Anne Sinclair imagines her grandfather trying to maintain some kind of cleanliness and self-respect despite the dire conditions in which he was forced to live. Prisoners played bridge or gave lectures on subjects regarding which they were knowledgeable, and this helped to maintain some kind of morale. Many, especially doctors, tried to help and support one another to the best of their ability, even though the treatment they received at the hands of the Nazis sought to reduce them to the level of beasts.
Leonce was imprisoned at Compiègne for three months, and was freed by being sent to hospital because he was considered to be very ill – as was the case with several other inmates after the long months of starvation and abuse. The camp at Compiègne was later disbanded, and many prisoners were sent to Drancy and Auschwitz in accordance with the Nazi plan to exterminate the Jews of Europe, as agreed at the meeting of senior Nazis at Wannsee in March 1942.
Wearing the uniform of a nurse, Marguerite found Leonce in the hospital and managed to commandeer an ambulance and take him to Paris. Anne Sinclair is not in possession of the exact facts of his escape, but surmises that this is what happened, and that subsequently Leonce and Marguerite managed to remain hidden in France till the end of the war. Leonce died at his home in Paris on 16 May 1945, eight days after the armistice, having lived to be reunited with his son, Anne Sinclair’s father, who had been on missions in the Near East on behalf of the Free French forces during the war.
Reading this book takes the reader on a harrowing journey to a time and place which it seems impossible to believe occurred. One would like to think that such inhumane treatment of one human being by another could not have existed in what was one of the most civilised countries of the world, but it did, and we must be grateful to Anne Sinclair for putting the raw facts before us so graphically. We must never forget.
Now that the review, revision, even reversion, of basic principles in the judiciary has come to the fore of Israel’s political life it would seem to be appropriate to extend the approach to other spheres which till now have held sway and been considered sacrosanct.
The time has come to tackle another set of precepts that has irked policy-makers, and politicians in particular, in recent times. I’m talking about the Ten Commandments, those basic principles which form the bedrock of civilized human society but whose initial attraction seems to have worn off. After all, it’s all well and good in this day and age to obey the commandment to have no other gods or not to make idols. It’s easy enough to understand that those were necessary and valid precepts back then in those far-off times when ancient societies did indeed hold all kinds of strange beliefs about the deities they worshipped, whether in the physical form of effigies or in some inanimate form that varied from time to time.
And who can fail to appreciate the value of having a day of rest, the precept that preceded all labour laws everywhere and which has been adopted – and even extended – all over the world? Who can resist the attraction presented by the long, lazy, two-day weekend of most western societies? Even in Israel, which supposedly adheres to the concept of keeping one day of rest, has allowed the idea of a two-day weekend, or at least a one-and-a-half-day weekend, to impinge on its strict adherence to a single day of rest by giving workers Friday off. After all, having a day of complete rest requires a lot of preparation, so orthodox Jewish women have to pack two days of cooking, baking and housework into one day, while their husbands go off to fish, swim or relax in their local ‘parliament’ with the other husbands. Not to mention the ultra-orthodox in Israel, who don’t work on any day of the week, so that for them to focus on a single day of rest is rather problematic.
Honouring one’s father and mother is something of a tall order in this day and age when parents belong to a generation that is unable to keep up with the heady pace of technical developments. If honouring them means downloading new apps into their mobile phones while muttering something about their inability to understand progress, then that will have to suffice. I’m not sure that all our politicians are even as up-to-date as that, but thankfully they all have secretaries and/or personal assistants to do the donkey work involved in writing emails, Facebook posts and Twitter messages.
But now we come to the tricky part. Not stealing and not bearing false witness, i.e., lying. How can any self-respecting politician hope to get ahead while adhering to those outdated commandments? I suppose their thinking goes along lines of ‘being economical with the truth isn’t exactly lying. Everyone does it. It’s become the norm.’ So, essentially, one can delude oneself, and seek to delude others, by claiming that that particular commandment has outlived its usefulness.
And so we find ourselves facing a situation in which the people who decide our laws and now even control our judiciary – overturning the whole concept of checks and balances – are able to disregard the basic principles of decency with impunity.
One can only hope that the change in our government that is so sorely needed will come sooner rather than later, whether as divine retribution, disintegration from within, or punishment by the electorate.
A thriller about contemporary Venice. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by being given the chance to read about thrills and thuggery in La Serenissima? So I took the bait and bought a copy of the book by Philip Gwynne Jones. It starts innocently enough, with Nathan Sutherland, honorary British consul in Venice doing his best to fulfil his mission of helping British tourists whose passports and/or money have been stolen and youngsters who have committed minor criminal offences. He also engages in translating lawn-mower manuals (Italian to English), which rather endeared him to me. In the process of dealing with the various routine tasks he has to fend off the attentions of his rather aggressive cat, Gramsci, and is asked by a perfect stranger to keep a mysterious package in the safe for a few days.
Sutherland refuses the request, but is summoned the next day to the Academmia Gallery, where he was informed that he had left a package and was obliged to collect it. This turned out to be the very package he had avoided accepting the previous day, but now had no choice in the matter. When he opened it he found it to contain a small book with illustrations depicting the life of he Virgin. Consultation with an art historian friend leads to the conclusion that the illustrations are by Giovanni Bellini. All kinds of twists and turns ensue as Sutherland together with his friend, a beautiful half-Italian art restorer, and various other characters who live in Venice and know it well enough to engage in heart-stopping races through the city, whether by boat or on foot, crossing any number of bridges and canals, making my head spin in the process.
As a typical Englishman, Sutherland devotes an inordinate amount of time and energy to drinking, and we learn about his favoured spots for engaging in that activity, though whether they actually exist or not I haven’t yet had the chance to ascertain. I have learned, however, that Prosecco is considered too weak to be actually considered an alcoholic drink, that a ‘proper’ drink is something called a Negroni, which is oone third gin, one third vermouth, and one third Campari, and is adorned with orange peel. In addition, various bottles of wine (mainly red) are consumed on various occasions with various companions (of which there are many).
The request to translate a legal document brings him to the home of a mysterious wealthy client, whose house is filled with priceless art works and claims that the Bellini booklet is his, and then invites him to accompany him to the opera. Thus, Sutherland is able to enter the famous La Fenice opera house and attend a performance of ‘Madame Butterfly,’ but this brings him no nearer solving the mystery of who is the rightful owner of the Bellini book, to which another individual, the person who asked him to keep it for a few days, also lays claim. Sutherland takes his laptop along and translates the document, but when the text describes him sorting out the papers my mind began boggling. Where was the printer? Was there a printer? An unsolved (and unlikely) mystery.
If you’re not confused by now, you should be. I certainly am, and was while reading the book. All sorts of characters appear, some more or less unsavoury, others simply sinister, often with no good reason, and leaving the reader reeling at the unlikelihood of it all. Although a sketchy map of Venice is provided, I was left confused by all the journeys taken by Sutherland and others in and around the city.
Of course, by the end of the book some characters have been killed off, and an attempt has been made on Sutherland’s life, but all’s well that ends well, the Bellini booklet becomes the property of the Italian bank that owns a huge art collection, Sutherland is paid well for his exertions, and is invited to a meal at the exclusive Le Bistrot de Venise. Plenty of good wine will inevitably be consumed there, I’m sure.
The topic for discussion at the meeting last week was ‘Which time of your life would you like to go back to?’ During the pandemic the group of people who meet everey two weeks to engage in German conversation held Zoom meetings instead of physical ones, and this still persists. Most of the participants are men and women in their seventies or eightees who have retired from employed work, and so it seems safer to remain at home for these meetings.
I was one of the first to reply, and I declared that here and now is the best time of my life. In my teenage years I suffered from social isolation, heartache and physical discomfort. Once I moved to Israel my situation changed, but those years of having to cope with three young children, trying to work as a freelance translator and also enduring bouts of illness that obliged me to undergo surgery and kept me in hospital for weeks at a time were not easy. Add to that the financial constraints that affect most young families, and I sometimes wonder, looking back, how I managed to remain sane at the time. At least, I hope I did.
But now my children (and even my grandchildren) are grown, and my husband and I are free to attend concerts or films without having to feel guilty or take a babysitter, our financial situation has improved, and my health situation is under control. The world around me has its problems, but for the moment they are not on my immediate doorstep. My home is warm and dry, we have plenty to eat, can see friends and family from time to time, and our children and grandchildren come for Friday-night dinner every two weeks. So now is definitely the best time of my life.
As the discussion continued other people expressed similar views. One of them stressed that being free from the constraints of work he has time to read, watch films and TV, and of course I agree with that. Another participant talked about pursuing his hobbies of painting and writing, in which he is able to engage even more actively now than before. That is the case for me too, as I’ve managed to write eight books since retiring from work. Some people talked about their travels or their voluntary work, and others about being involved in researching and writing their family history. Almost everybody agreed that, physical limitations apart, this is the best time of their life.
That triggered a general discussion about the importance of writing about our life for the benefit of our offspring, of keeping a record of who the previous generations had been, what they had done and how they had lived. Many of those involved had documents, correspondence and diaries of previous generations, and acknowledged that they were probably the last individuals in their family with knowledge of the German language and hence able to access those records. Suddenly, we were all confronted with the heavy responsibility that lay on our shoulders of making the lives of our parents and grandparents accessible to our children and grandchildren, and all the future generations. I hope to be able to do something about it at some point in the future.
The music of Gustav Mahler is not everyone’s cup of tea, and this applies especially to his later works, starting with his sixth symphony. However. at last week’s concert given by the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra under the baton of Maestro Leon Botstein, the auditorium was packed, evidently with people for whom Mahler’s music was to their liking.
Almost everything Mahler wrote has a distinctive character of its own as well as bearing a common thread of composition and orchestration that is evident in them all. The first five symphonies are generally melodious, with references to folk music, popular tunes or songs composed by Mahler himself. Anyone familiar with his music will almost instantly recognize an unfamiliar piece of music written by him, because of his idiosyncratic use of the brass or wind instruments, rhythmic element or deployment of tympani.
At last week’s concert Maestro Botstein spoke a few words of welcome in Hebrew before proceeding in English to explain the nature of the evening’s program – an arrangement by Mahler of a Bach suite followed by his symphony no.6, placing them both in the context of Mahler’s life and career, his position in turn-of-the-century Vienna and his subsequent move to the U.S.A.
The symphony starts with a heavy, rhythmic thumping sound in a low register, seeming to describe the ominous marching of an army, before taking off into higher spheres with the introduction of the other instruments of the orchestra. Being a conductor as well as a composer, Mahler seems almost to go out of his way to use every conceivable instrument ever invented as suitable for inclusion in a symphony orchestra – as well as some that aren’t. Mahler’s impoverished childhood home in Bohemia was situated near to a military barracks, so that the sounds emanating from there evidently constituted a formative influence on him, one that can be heard in many of his symphonies – trumpet calls, rattling drums and shrieking whistles.
In later life Mahler spent summers in the Austrian countryside, and themes representing the pastoral atmosphere and his enjoyment of it recur in many of his symphonies. In last night’s performance the sound of cowbells could be heard from time to time, bringing a simple, earthbound element into a world of noise that thrashed and whirled around the auditorium with frenetic energy.
As the four movements of the symphony progressed, with very little melodic charm and a greater amount of dissonance than is customary even in Mahler’s work, the mood shifted from ominous apprehension to brazen defiance. Near the end of the piece one of the several tympanists raised a huge wooden hammer aloft then brought it down on the floor with an enormous crash, repeating this feat of physical and aural assault one more time. Nobody was hurt, but the message was not a happy one. I was left wondering what Mahler was trying to say. Was he apprehensive as to what the future held? Was he a visionary? Or was he simply depressed?
I was fortunate enough to have been introduced to Mahler’s music as a small child, when my father would put the record of his first symphony on our family gramophone and explain the music to me. I feel at home with most of Mahler’s music, but I must admit that though his sixth symphony is not easy on the ear, having been able to hear it performed live is an audio-visual experience I will always remember.
The following mission statement (in Hebrew), together with a photograph of the (orthodox) politician behind it, appeared in large letters on the front cover of the weekend edition of the Hebrew newspaper, Haaretz, last week. It is unusual for text to be featured on the front cover, but in this instance the editor obviously felt it was sufficiently important (and horrifying) to be brought to the forefront of the reader’s attention. Below is my translation of the text:
“Our banner is one of unambiguous war on progress. The status-quo has to be changed, ensuring that Judaism is acknowledged in every corner of the life of the State. Israel will be a country that observes the Sabbath in public, homosexual families will not be given recognition, and women will not serve in the army; their contribution will be to marry and produce a family. We will not be like countries that are for all their citizens. Heaven forfend. The values of Judaism supersede all individual rights. Look, I’m getting tools and budgets, I’m here to work, and we will clean up the public systems. Watch me, I’m patient, this is just the beginning of the beginning.”
The minister behind this statement is a newly-elected member of the Knesset, representing a tiny party, Noam, which adheres to the orthodox version of the Jewish religion and seeks to impose those views on the entire country. The remit he has taken on himself is to impose the teaching of Jewish subjects in all schools, whether they belong to the religious stream or not.
In order to form a firm coalition which will be able to drive through the various legal and policy changes he plans to introduce (and keep his ongoing trial for corruption at bay), Binyamin Netanyahu has gathered together an assortment of politicians representing parties on the extreme right of the spectrum as well as others who adhere to the fundamentalist version of Judaism. Some of them combine both aspects into a single ideology, making for a toxic mix of individuals who adhere to concepts, values and mores that are based on texts and ideas dating back to ancient times.
But the fact of the matter is that the majority of Israelis are not orthodox Jews. Most Israelis are happy to use electricity on the Sabbath, or drive their car to go to the sea or enjoy a picnic in the countryside. Most Israelis are equally happy to celebrate the various religious festivals that mark the year, each family or individual doing it in their own way, adhering to some form of tradition (focusing mainly on food) but not feeling bound to observe all the niceties of orthodox observance. The general atmosphere in the country at the time of such festivals as Sukkot, Pesach (Passover) or the High Holidays, is one of unity in awareness and celebration but not of strict adherence to the rules and regulations with which orthodox Jews (within which category there are also many variations) choose to mark those events.
As Netanyahu’s government seeks to proceed with its attempt to radically change the face of Israeli society, introducing drastic changes in the legal system and imposing laws which undermine the basic principles of equality and decency laid down in Israel’s Declaration of Independence, a growing backlash is beginning to emerge, with mass demonstrations throughout the country. It remains to be seen if anyone in the government will pay attention to the growing groundswell of opposition to the theological thuggery that is rearing its ugly head.
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