Past Imperfect in a Tense Future

Blog Shmog on Shabbat

2005-01-15T17:30:00.000-08:00

It’s Saturday, more commonly known as Shabbat around these parts. Supposedly the day when God put his feet up and rested after a frantic week’s work putting man on earth and teaching him a lesson or two into the bargain. By all accounts he didn’t do too bad a job; after all he started from scratch without the benefit of technology. That, of course, came much later. Not for him, the convenience of the delete button, nor for that matter, the chance to ditch the whole plan and throw himself at the mercy of the television remote control shored up by a heady dose of chocolate. No. He had a job to do and he did it.

The more pious among us keep this day sacred, I don’t. My Shabbat is governed by other forces, none of them being remotely holy. True enough, God may have a hand in the direction my day will take; I don’t doubt that, but only, dare I say it, indirectly.

Take, for example, the weather. From where I am sitting I have a clear view of leaden skies over Tel Aviv, more conducive to staying indoors than my preferred choice of Shabbat worship – going to the beach. So here I am, slouched on the chair in my study, fingers poised over the keyboard and ready to write.

Did I tell you I was writing a book? Well I am. It’s proving to be harder than I first thought. Page three hundred and eighty five has me completely stumped. In it, the heroine (well I like to think of her as that) is about to make a life-changing choice – oh she does it alright, and the course of the story is set in stone from thereon but it is that point which is the hardest to cross, which is why I am doing that other thing which takes up much of my time, not only on Shabbat, but on the other six days of the week as well – procrastinating.

I blame those little yellow squares of paper with the thin strip of gum on the back – Post-it notes. Dotted all over the wall opposite me, each one scrawled with a given task, for example, write to Great-Auntie Cissie, Enrol at Pilates Class, and download photos from camera or even the one on the fridge door which proclaims for all the world to see Stop, you fat cow! It’s as if by writing them and sticking them, I’ve made inroads to completion of the job at hand when I most definitely have not.

This is why I am watching the cursor blink on a white screen where ground-breaking fiction is not in the making and procrastination is showing itself indeed to be that greatest thief of my time.

Or is it the hand of God wielding his power in such a way that I just cannot, I repeat - not, write on Shabbat?

Past imperfect in a Tense Future

2005-01-15T08:24:00.000-08:00

Past imperfect in a Tense Future

2005-01-15T08:02:00.000-08:00

Tricia with husband's hand on shoulder

Five Minutes More

2005-01-15T01:28:00.000-08:00

A son misses his now-deceased father, a survivor of the Holocaust. In his youth the son recoiled from his father’s pleas for understanding, thinking him only weak and feeble. Only in maturity could he accept that his father was indeed a hero.

Abba, forgive me for all those times I refused
To listen to the stories of how you were abused
Shaking my head I just would not pay attention
When you listed the details too dire to mention.

Your tales of detention, I could not conceive
The hunger, the torment which I didn’t believe
And the atrocities you accepted as your destiny
I interpreted as a weakness quite alien to me.

You sat me down and said “Son, please listen”
While in your weary eyes the tears did glisten
And I said “but Abba, why didn’t you fight
And save your family from that terrible plight?”

You thumped your heart and said “mine Gott”
That not one day passed when you didn’t plot
The flight to freedom, to the Promised Land
Oh Abba, how you wanted me to understand.

The sleepless nights when I heard your screams
As the past came to haunt in nightmare dreams
When Imma hugged you to her comforting breast
And hushed away ghouls disturbing your rest.

Abba, forgive me, that I shunned explanations
Blaming you and Imma for my own frustrations
But I was only a child, a mere boy - still learning
With the flames of conflict in my heart burning.

I went into combat to defend our young State
Driven by conquest, it was so hard to relate
To a father too petrified and too weak to rebel
Who witnessed his own parents burning in hell.

I was a macho warrior with not a thing to fear
Inclining my rifle in army camouflage gear
A thorny Sabra with spikes that drew blood
Intent on the target, I crawled through the mud.

“Don’t die, don’t dare” I screamed in his face
“Hold on, be strong, we’ll get out of this place”
And hugging the bullet-ridden body of my friend
My condemnation of you came to a timely end.

Oh how I wept, though not quite believing
That I, one so tough, was so blatantly grieving
For the loss of a comrade, so viciously slain
It was then, Abba, I understood your pain.

At home with Imma, to Ha-Shem you pleaded
That my safe homecoming would not be impeded
And you kissed the air, and gave thanks in prayer
As I stormed in the house, and slumped in the chair.

"Avraimi, mine yeled, take off your boots and rest
For such a brave son, we are so truly blessed"
You said raining kisses on the top of my head
While I quietly ached for my best friend dead

The newspapers heralded the tidings we craved
That the war was won and Am Yisroel was saved
You brought out the Schnapps and we imbibed
“L’Chayim,” You said “In the book it’s inscribed”

Every day you walked to the Great Allenby Shul
Pious in your belief, trusting it had been the tool
To your liberation, and freedom from strife
The very reason you were gifted with life.

Anxiously you scoured the faces of others
Desperately hoping to find your lost brothers
Searching the lists of names at Yad Va Shem
Clutching Imma’s hand, you scrolled down them.

A searing hot stab cut your heart like a knife
Breaking ours in its wake as it severed your life.
Imma shook angry fists at the heavens above
And asked what Ha Shem was thinking of.

Imma got sick, I nursed her for years
Her rasping voice whispered in my ears
She told me your tales, I understood then
And I wanted to hear them again and again

But when she took her last breath I knew
That I became the mensch all because of you
When I look in the mirror it's your image I see
Not a weak, feeble man, but a warrior like me.

I wish I had listened, I wish I could now
To tales that deepened the lines on your brow
Abba, forgive me, that I chose to ignore
If only you’d given me five minutes more.

© Patricia Schwitzer
6th June 2004

There Was a Time..

2005-01-14T13:13:00.000-08:00

There was a time I had a cherry red coat
With a fluffy white collar that tickled my throat
This kept me warm in the cold winter weather
With fur-lined boots of the finest black leather

There was a time when I laughed and danced
My hair braided with ribbons, boys were entranced
By the beauty that shone from this sweet face
When I wore pretty dresses of velvet and lace.

There was a time when I lived in a grand home
Daydreaming through rose gardens, I loved to roam
Picking the flowers and laying on the green lawn
With nothing but past pets and lovers to mourn.

There was a time when I excelled at school
When my future shone like a precious jewel
When Mama and Papa took my brother and I
To beach vacations for two weeks in July

There was a time when I had nothing to fear
No ghouls or ghosts would ever come near
Sitting for hours tinkling at the baby grand
Melodiously playing with a delicate hand

There was a time when I sat down for a meal
Of baby potatoes and crisp roasted veal
With a fine linen napkin upon my lap I dined
From bone china plates gracefully refined.

There was a time when I slept in a brass bed
With soft feather pillows cushioning my head
Underneath an embroidered quilt, I was snug
Just dreaming of a handsome stranger’s hug.

There was a time I sat on the stairs and spied
On Papa telling Mama we must go and hide
She wept as he said to her in broken voice
Be brave my darling. We don’t have a choice.

There was a time I quickly packed my case
And ran with my parents to a hiding place
In a cold damp cellar far below the ground
We huddled and prayed we wouldn’t be found.

There was a time I heard the hound dogs bark
Just above my head down there in the dark
The thud of foot drop bound in heavy boots
As we were discovered by Gestapo recruits

There was a time I wore a yellow cloth star
As if branding me different for what we are
The death wish of Nazis on the chosen race
Deepened the lines on Papa’s kind face.

There was a time the cane delivered its lash
They stole our belongings, silver and cash
The synagogue that stood proudly in the town
Was wrecked and plundered, burnt to the ground

There was a time I saw my Papa refuse
To bow to the Fuhrer, killer of Jews
“Never” he shouted, and spat at the picture
Unable to bend to such tenuous stricture

There was a time I was shoved onto the train
Never ever to see my dearest Papa again
Holding on to my mother and brother for life
I muted his scream for his children and wife.

There was a time I was shaved of my hair
Robbed of my clothes and made to stand bare
While they scorched a serial number into my arm
My Mama through tears urged me to stay calm

There was a time the fleas bit me to chunks
At night when I restlessly lay on the bunks
Listening to the moans of those souls taunted
By witnessed sights that nightmares haunted

There was a time Mama went into the shower
I waited for her to return but after an hour
As black smoke funnelled it’s way to the sky
I realised she had been sent in there to die.

There was a time I cried a hot river of tears
Alone amongst masses I gave into my fears
Given the gory task of sorting belongings
I sobbed at the sight of my Mama’s gold rings

There was a time I hated more than I loved
Despising those bastards who cruelly shoved
Tons of frail bodies into shallow dug holes
With little regard for their kind tortured souls.

There was a time I would kill for some bread
Then changed my mind and wished I was dead
Every morning my body clung on to life
To soldier on in the gut-wrenching strife.

There was a time I dreamed of my liberation
From the mass murders and degradation
But could I ever dance or laugh again
Knowing my Mama and Papa were slain

There was a time I looked for my brother
I searched gaunt faces one after the other
Realising that he too was cruelly gone
I hardened my heart and just plodded on.

There was a time I thought would never arrive
When friendly forces freed me barely alive
And all these years later in a much safer place
I will always remember the liberator’s embrace

© Patricia Schwitzer
16th April 2004

The Early Morning Bus

2005-01-14T13:04:00.000-08:00

I sprinted to catch the early morning bus
Just five minutes late and they’d make a fuss
At the office where I toil for most of the day
Typing and filing for laughable pay
I packed the kids off to school in a flurry
Pecking my husband’s cheek in a hurry

Standing room only on the number sixteen
Usually the case in my morning routine
Looking on enviously at those who were sat
Gazing out of the window or occupied in chat
Absently I contemplated my role in this life
Of the working mother and much loved wife

The constant arguments with my teenage boys
To tidy their rooms and turn down their noise
To do their homework and excel in their studies
Before a game of football with their buddies.
To relieve the monotony of the morning ride
I thought of my husband, twenty years by my side
My friend and lover who works such long hours
Who every Shabbat brings me armfuls of flowers

He worried about me because I took the bus
And I told him he was silly for making a fuss
But alas, we’ve had our share of bus bomb attacks
And I’m always suspicious of unattended backpacks
We live with the terror, the fear and the dread
And can’t understand how from birth it is bred
From the milk of the mothers a few miles away
Who educate their children in such a foul play

The Jerusalem streets were dipped in the honey
Of that glorious morning so warm and sunny
I pushed past the other riders to get off at my stop
And my world went black with a thunderous pop

Body parts splattered as if thrown raw eggs
I was pinned to the floor and couldn’t feel my legs
And above my head a child’s limb hung
Impaled on a blown seat it precariously swung
Nails and metal, bits of clothing and glass
Rained down on the bodies in a tangled mass
Blood, gore and flesh in the last throws of being
Battered my eyes with the abuse of seeing

The strangled moan of the distressed fear
At the discovery of a missing arm or ear
The walking wounded who limped out crying
Who tried to revive those horrifically dying
The bus-riding public now cruelly disfigured
When the suicide bombers detonator triggered

The death toll numbered twenty-five they said
But that’s not counting the many hearts that bled
Nor those injured and who’s lives have changed
By the actions of an Arab so morally deranged
In the garden I sit in my electric wheel chair
This replaces the legs that are no longer there

© Patricia Schwitzer
10th March 2004