Take The A Train

There's already been a fine blog about the famous Duke Ellington classic 'Take the A Train' this week, so I'm not going very far down that line, except to say my favourite version of the tune was recorded in 1939 and I'll post a link to it at the end of the blog.

The A train, also known as the 8th Avenue line, runs from Manhattan to Queens in New York and is part of the city's rapid transit system, the fastest way to get around. As a result, the phrase "take the A train" has come to mean "get here (or there) quickly" or "don't delay".

New York's A Train

I said I wasn't going to dwell on the NYC/Duke Ellington connection, so enjoy the picture and let's move on. 

 My good friends at Penguin Books have recently published a trio of works by Aharon Appelfeld. I picked up both 'Katerina', which I'd never read before - it is beautifully written - and 'Badenheim 1939' which I first read forty years ago but have just finished for the second time. It was this latter, Appelfeld's brilliant satirical allegory about the shipment of Jews to Poland by the Nazis, that gave me my slant on this A Train blog, the A in this case being Auschwitz, if you hadn't guessed.

As if the Second World War wasn't bad enough on all counts, the genocide that the Nazis perpetrated in parallel on the non-Aryans in their clutches (mainly Jews but also other ethnic groups) still beggars belief. The 'Final Solution', a plan to eradicate eleven million men, women and children on mainland Europe purely on the grounds of ethnicity, is surely the most evil scheme ever devised - and ironically, it was the continent's railway network that made it logistically feasible.

The ghettoising of Jews within Germany had begun of course in the mid-1930s after the National Socialist Party swept to power. It began in other territories in 1938 when the Nazis annexed Austria and invaded Czechoslovakia. Then in October of that year the mass expulsion of German Jews with Polish nationality commenced. They ended up in refugee camps inside Poland. Of course when Germany invaded Poland in 1939 (and formal war was declared by the British and French) the Nazis were in a much better position to control and direct their horrific ethnic cleansing scheme with brutal efficiency. 

The first step was to forcibly dissolve any Jewish settlements that were not adjacent to the railway infrastructure.  The second was to build a number of large camps (variously termed concentration, internment or labour camps) and to move Jews in Germany to these camps. They were run by the SS and the internees had to pay for food, rations et cetera. You will recognise some of their names: Belsen, Buchenwald, Dachau. As Germany advanced into Denmark, France, Belgium and the Netherlands, so the Jews in those countries were liable to be rounded up into concentration camps in the occupied territories.. The same fate met Jewish communities in Italy, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Greece, Ukraine and Romania. By 1941, there were over thirty of these concentration camps across mainland Europe, populated by people brought to them by rail, in third-class carriages if they were lucky, more often in freight trucks.

The final phase began in 1942 with the decision to build the infamous death camps (extermination camps). The majority were in Poland (though there was one in Belarus) and their names now sound a roll of horror for the terror that was the Holocaust: not just Auschwitz but Belzec, Chelmno, Majdanek, Sohibor and Treblinka. But at the time, the 'Final Solution' was top secret. The story was that the Jews and other ethnic groups who had been held in the concentration camps were being resettled in the east, moved to spacious new labour camps in German-occupied Ukraine. The Nazis made the Deutsche Reichsbahn responsible for the final railway journey of millions who were heading in reality to those Polish gas-chambers. To keep up the pretence, they were made to buy their own tickets for this journey on the A train to a better place.

They were shipped east just as fast as the gas-chambers could process them and the railway stock and network could accommodate them. By the time Germany was finally defeated, over six million of the targeted eleven million Jews had been exterminated. The scale of the atrocity should make us all shudder for evermore really.    

Last Train to Auschwitz

The photograph above purports to show Jews boarding the very last death train to Auschwitz in September 1944. They look at worst like refugees, at best almost like holiday-makers with their packages and suitcases, totally unaware of the terrifying end that awaits them. 

Appelfeld (a Holocaust survivor himself who after the war went to live in Palestine) describes the SS in his novel as the Sanitation Department and 'Badenheim 1939', which I urge you to read, closes like this:

An engine coupled to four filthy freight cars emerged from the hills and stopped at the station. Its appearance was as sudden as if it had risen from a pit in the ground. 'Get in!' yelled invisible voices. And the people were sucked in. Even those who were standing with a bottle of lemonade in their hands, a bar of chocolate, the headwaiter with his dog - they were all sucked in as easily as grains of wheat poured into a funnel. Nevertheless Dr Pappenheim found time to make the following remark: 'If the coaches are so dirty it must mean that we have not far to go.'

It's a while since I've attempted a poem in the form of a pastiche, but here I've taken W. H. Auden's famous 'Night Mail' (apologies, Wystan lad), written in 1936 even as the ghettoising of Jews was getting under way in Germany, and I've turned it into something infinitely darker. I make no apologies, it is intended to shock. It's a good job we won the war. But it's concerning that the shadow of fascism is creeping across the face of Europe again. We don't need a new world order, thank you.

The A Train

This is the A train crossing the Oder

Bringing in truckloads of human fodder,

Jews who were rich, Jews who were poor

Out of the synagogue and the shop next door,

Dragged from their beds as midnight chimed

Ghetto-cleansing in overtime.

The North German Plain has never felt colder

Deserted fields and icy polders,

Lit by moonlight as she passes

Silent miles of stunted grasses,

Crows overhead as she approaches

Cry on the wing for her death-rattle coaches.

Though built of steel, she knows remorse

Is shamed she cannot change her course,

As she passes towns she applies the brakes

Though in their beds no German wakes.

Dawn stirs in the east, her job is done

Down into Auschwitz she descends

Towards the barb-wired final solution

Towards the gas chambers, the furnaces

Set on the stark plain like a vision of Hell.

The guards wait for her

In dark uniforms, with hard blue eyes

They thirst for Jews...

Jews of rank and Jews from banks

Jews with locks and Jews with stocks

Jews in hopeless situations

Jews who were hidden by relations

Jews from every walk and station

Jews upon Jews from all the nations

Jews circumstantial betrayed by friends

Jews financial stripped of funds

Jews with faces creased in pain

Jews who died while on the train

Jews with wild thoughts of escaping

Beautiful Jews ripe for the raping

Jews of every shade and hue

The pink, the brown, the white and the blue

The proud, the cowed, the weak, the strong

Clever, or stupid, and right or wrong

Officially they don't belong

Their names are printed but misspelt

They've been relieved of all their gelt.

So millions are put to eternal sleep

Dreaming of demons, men become monsters

A country that turned at the bark of a madman,

But their shades still shift sleepless through Sohibor

Mournful over Majdanek, ghosting round Chelmno 

Troubled at Treblinka, agonised in Auschwitz

And we who are lucky to be alive and awoken

Should listen to the warning when it knocks

For what happened ought never to be forgotten.

By way of lightening the mood, here's a rendition of Duke Ellington's classic tune, recorded as I said in 1939. Just click on the title to play Take The A Train.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Pastiche - It's All a Bit of a Miss Mash

Pastiche.  I like the sound of the word. I roll it around my mouth, savouring the feel of the letters. I say it out loud, slowly. I do this for several minutes whilst I ponder on its meaning. This is mainly because, to my embarrassment, I haven't got a clue what it means and I have a strong feeling I should know. I have a vague inkling it might be something to do with collage, but I'm far from certain. 

I ask the husband if he knows what it means. 

'It's a drink isnt it?' he ventures. I ponder for a moment.

'No, that's pastis' I reply, hesitantly, 'I think.'

My grandson comes in as we're still discussing the word.

'Pastiche?' he asks, 'isn't that like a pasty?'

I decide it's time to google. 

'A pastiche is a work of visual art, literature, theatre, or music that imitates the style or character of the work of one or more other artists. Unlike parody, pastiche celebrates, rather than mocks, the work it imitates^.'

Ahhh......I should have known the meaning of this word, not only as a writer but also an artist. I'm ashamed. I don't think I've ever needed to use the word, but then, who can say? Maybe if I'd known it sooner I'd have been peppering all my conversations with it.  I read on. 

'The word pastiche is a French cognate of the Italian noun pasticcio, which is a pâté or pie-filling mixed from diverse ingredients.  Metaphorically, pastiche and pasticcio describe works that are either composed by several authors, or that incorporate stylistic elements of other artists' work. Pastiche is an example of eclecticism in art.' 

It sounds like my grandson's pie definition isn't totally wide of the mark. And nor is my wild guess at collage.

I know I'm going off topic here but this got me thinking about vocabulary.  I've always loved reading, writing, the sound and meaning of words, but I realised when I returned to uni to study for a PGCE after a twenty year gap that I was out of touch with quite a lot of vocabulary.  Admittedly, some of it was jargon but there were other words and phrases which had come into use whilst I was busy wiping faces, bums and noses - that I just hadn't heard of.   I think I managed to catch up but then I had a few more gap years and I got left behind again.  This time I was re entering the art world, which had its own unique language, involving grants, funding, open exhibitions and curators. It was another steep learning curve. 

I might not have followed the brief this week but I've learnt the meaning of 'pastiche'.  I now know it's not a drink or a pie.  It's a start.....

Pastiche: not a drink, not a pie

In the absence of either a suitable poem - or the time to write one, I decided there could only be one song, here reproduced in it's entirety, that could sum up 'pastiche'.  I know this because Wikipedia tells me in no uncertain terms that: Bohemian Rhapsody is unusual as it is a pastiche in both senses of the word, as there are many distinct styles imitated in the song, all "hodge-podged" together to create one piece of music.

"Bohemian Rhapsody"

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide,

No escape from reality.

Open your eyes,

Look up to the skies and see,

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy,

Because I'm easy come, easy go,

Little high, little low,

Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me.

Mama, just killed a man,

Put a gun against his head,

Pulled my trigger, now he's dead.

Mama, life had just begun,

But now I've gone and thrown it all away.

Mama, ooh,

Didn't mean to make you cry,

If I'm not back again this time tomorrow,

Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters.

Too late, my time has come,

Sends shivers down my spine,

Body's aching all the time.

Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go,

Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth.

Mama, ooh (any way the wind blows),

I don't wanna die,

I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all.

I see a little silhouetto of a man,

Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?

Thunderbolt and lightning,

Very, very frightening me.

(Galileo) Galileo.

(Galileo) Galileo,

Galileo Figaro

Magnifico-o-o-o-o.

I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me.

He's just a poor boy from a poor family,

Spare him his life from this monstrosity.

Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?

Bismillah! No, we will not let you go. (Let him go!)

Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let him go!)

Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let me go!)

Will not let you go. (Let me go!)

Never, never let you go

Never let me go, oh.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Oh, mama mia, mama mia (Mama mia, let me go.)

Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me.

So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?

So you think you can love me and leave me to die?

Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby,

Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here.

(Oh, yeah, oh yeah)

Nothing really matters,

Anyone can see,

Nothing really matters,

Nothing really matters to me.

Any way the wind blows.

Thanks for reading, I've learnt a lot,    Jill

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Black Friday Cornish Pastiche

I'm down in London as I write this. I drove south from Blackpool yesterday ('Black Friday') and had arranged to kick the week-end off by meeting a friend I hadn't seen for nigh-on 25 years for a couple of beers in a pub in Greek Street.

Black Friday quite literally lived up to its billing, as by the time I arrived in Soho at approaching 6pm the whole area had been plunged into stygian darkness: power-cut - no street lamps working, all the traffic lights out, shops expelling customers and closing early, cars inching warily through thousands of people milling around using the light of mobile phones to navigate in the blackness. It was chaotic and very spooky.

I eventually found the pub, which was serving only hand-pumped beer in plastic glasses by candle-light, to be paid for in cash (there being no electricity for pumps, card-machines or dishwashers). I was worried that in the gloom I wouldn't recognise the friend I hadn't seen for a quarter-century. In the end it wasn't a problem. We sat out at a table on the pavement and enjoyed pints of ESB, the zombie-like madness on the streets and the camaraderie that this sort of 'crisis' engenders. It was fun - and power was restored to the area by about 9pm.

All of which has got almost nothing to do with the theme of this week's blog, pastiche. This will be a challenge!

A French word deriving in turn from the Italian pasticcio, a pastiche is an eclectic work of art in which the creator references or imitates the style of another artist (or indeed more than one other). It's a metaphorical pate or pie-filling made up of diverse ingredients. It differs from parody in that a pastiche celebrates rather than sends up that which it draws on.

By a tenuous mental link (the like of which I am fond, as you've probably realised by now), metaphorical pie-fillings put me in mind of pasties or oggies, which in turn led to thoughts of Cornwall, traditional home of said foodstuff, and tin miners, for whom the oggie is supposed to have been devised. The idea for this week's blog was born in the Soho gloom: Black Friday Cornish Pastiche!

Pasties ('hogen' in Cornish which gave rise to the word 'oggie') were what Cornish miners would eat for lunch (see the photograph below).

Cornish tin miners on their pastie break

They were an early form of convenience food, wrapped in a D-shaped pie-crust for ease of handling and considerations of hygiene - no knives and forks required and, wrapped in paper, there was minimal chance of contamination by the mineral dust in which the miners worked. Pasties were filled with diced meat and vegetables, whatever was seasonal and to hand. Sometimes they got a bit sophisticated and had a savoury filling at one end and fruit (apple or mince-meat) at the other - two courses in one pie-crust. You just had to know which end to start at!

Anatomy of a pastie

Cornwall has long been famous for its mines and mining tradition. Tin (along with arsenic, copper, silver, tungsten and zinc) was mined in the region from as early as 2150 BC and the last working tin mine closed less than 20 years ago. After the forced closure of South Crofty in 1999, the following graffiti appeared on the wall: "Cornish lads are fishermen and Cornish lads are miners too, but when the fish and tin are gone, what are the Cornish boys to do?"

It is obvious enough that tunnelling deep into the earth in search of mineral ore was hard and dangerous work, often lethal - a long metaphorical black Friday, powered by pasties! Do you see where this blog is going?

So now you get two poems. I hope you enjoy both.

The first, Unknown Shores, looks to the skies. It is by the brilliant Cornish poet D.M. Thomas and is itself a pastiche of sorts, being an affectionate reference both to the work of an earlier French poet, Theophile Gautier, and to the science-fiction stories of Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke for which Thomas, born in Redruth, Cornwall in 1935, had a bit of an obsession as a young man growing up with the nascent space age...

Unknown Shores
Okay, my starsick beauty! -
blue jeans and tilting breasts,
child of Canaverel -
where would you like to go?

Shall we set course for Mars,
or Venus's green sea,
Aldebaran the golden,
or Tycho Brahe's Nova,
the moons of Sagitta,
or Vega's colonies?

School-minching, bronze Diane,
bane of the launching-pads -
I may not ask again:
wherever you would go

my rocket-head can turn
at will to your command -
to pluck the flowers of snow
that grow on Pluto, or
Capella-wards, to pluck
the roots of asphodel?

I may not ask again:
where would you like to go?

Have you a star, she says,
O any faithful sun
where love does not eclipse?
...(The countdown slurs and slips).
-Ah child, if that star shines,
it is in chartless skies,

I do not know of such!
But come, where will you go?

                                          D.M. Thomas (1968)


The second, The Stannary Pieman's Legacy, peers down into the earth. It is by the not so brilliant Lancashire poet S.G. Rowland (moi) and is a freshly baked pastiche of Thomas's work - which you wouldn't have realised if I didn't include the original inspiration...

The Stannary Pieman's Legacy
Oggie for you, pale-skinned hearty! -
with hard hat and swelling breast.
Man-child of Cornwall -
where were you used to go?

You'd set your course for Hades,
searching out copper's green seam,
cassiterite's dull gleam
deep beneath the barren hills
of Kernow.

Pastie-munching subterranean,
thane of the underworld -
what else was there to do but mine or fish?

Wherever you would go,
your pick-axe head you'd wield
at will with skilful hand
to crack the rocks of Zennor,
to mine rich veins for tin, or
St Austell-wards, to chip out
tungsten ore from granite folds.

And when the minerals were all brought out,
Come, then where could you go?

Have you another mine, you said,
O any gloomy tunnel to a vein
where ore can still be hewn?

- Ah, man-child, I replied,
if there be such it lies beneath
another's heartless skies.

Cornwall's mining days are done -
be thankful that it's pie lives on.

Thanks for reading. Wishing you a great week, filled with diverse interests,  S ;-)

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