The World in Pieces

By Bart Midwood

Spanning several generations and four continents, blending Freudian secrets and contemporary international politics, while tracing the rich and tortuous journey of a particular family, Midwood has opened a door upon both the brightest and darkest aspects of social intercourse and on the reverberations that flow from the actions of particular members of one generation on to the innocent members of the next.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504033619

Book preview

Lo Yadua-Midwood Correspondence

Israel/New York

June, 1982 to November, 1982

Brooklyn, New York

June 5, 1982

Dear Lo Yadua,

I am writing to you at the suggestion of Surah Brody. About six months after the sad occasion of her death last winter, I received by way of her attorney a bequest of family papers, most of which were originally the property of her mother, Blima Brody, née Klau. In a cover letter Surah indicated that both she and her brother Anchel believed that I could in some way make use of these papers in a literary work, and I am now considering the possibility of doing that. I don’t know the nature of your relationship to Surah and Anchel, but I assume that since Surah mentioned you in her cover letter to me, I should contact you and let you know of my project.

Sincerely yours,

B.A. Midwood

Kibbutz Bet Lev

June 23, 1982

Dear B.A. Midwood,

Thank you for writing to me and for telling me about the box of papers and your project. Years ago I heard something about these papers, that there were many letters and so on, and in many languages, and now I am curious about them. Perhaps you could make copies for me. Not of all, of course. I’m sure there must be many, and to copy all would be expensive. I would be willing to pay anyway fifty American dollars for the cost of the copying and the postage. I know this may be a nuisance for you, to spend time with copy-machines and mailing and so on, so I would be willing to pay for the time as well, another fifty dollars. I don’t know if that is enough. You will have to tell me.

Lo Yadua

Brooklyn, New York

July 12, 1982

Dear Lo Yadua,

I am just beginning to work my way through the material, so I don’t yet have an idea of which papers might be interesting enough to copy. Also, if you can give me some idea of who you are and what is your relationship to Anchel and Surah, I’d have a better chance of making an appropriate selection for you.

Sincerely yours,

B.A. Midwood

Kibbutz Bet Lev

August 6, 1982

Dear B.A. Midwood,

Who I am, that will take a long letter. But what is my relationship to Anchel and Surah, that I can answer simply. I am their son.

Lo Yadua

Brooklyn, New York

August 24, 1982

Dear Lo Yadua,

This information, that Anchel and Surah had a son, and that their son is you, comes as a complete surprise to me. Can you tell me more about yourself?

B.A. Midwood

Kibbutz Bet Lev

September 10, 1982

Dear B.A. Midwood,

I am a farmer, also now and then a soldier. I have lived on this kibbutz for over fifty years, ever since I was almost five. I could tell you more about myself, but first you must tell me about this project of yours. What sort of project is it? I assume that you intend to make a book of some kind. If so, will it be maybe a family history, or a novel, or what?

Lo Yadua

Brooklyn, New York

October 2, 1982

Dear Lo Yadua,

I can’t tell you just yet what this book will be, or even in fact if there will be a book. At present I’m simply going through the material, which isn’t easy, as I have come across eleven languages and am able to work in only four—English, French, German and Italian. Luckily the other seven appear only rarely, so in general I am getting along well enough.

Last week I found and at once began to make a written English translation of three pieces in German, quite consciously literary and artistic, that narrate certain violent episodes in the life of your grandmother, Blima. I’d be happy to send you the translation when it’s done, unless you prefer the German original, which I could copy and send immediately. Are you interested?

B.A. Midwood

Kibbutz Bet Lev

October 15, 1982

Dear B.A. Midwood,

My parents were born of the same mother. This means I have only one grandmother. So, naturally, I’m interested. Even if I had two grandmothers, like normal people have, I would be interested. But since I have only one, believe me, I’m twice as interested.

Lo Yadua

p.s. I have no German, so I’ll wait for the translation.

Brooklyn, New York

November 5, 1982

Dear Lo Yadua,

Enclosed is my translation of the three pieces in German I mentioned in my last letter.

On the original manuscript the author is indicated only by the initials L.H. I have scanned all the German correspondence for some reference to this L.H. but found none, which is unfortunate on many counts, not the least of which is that unless something turns up, we are not going to be able to know with any certainty what relationship the author had to Blima, and then what Blima herself might have thought about these literary representations of her experience. Since she preserved them quite carefully in an elegant embossed envelope, however, and even made a point of mentioning them in a formal bequest without appending any corrective comment, I think we can reasonably assume that she thought well of them and that they were pretty close to the truth.

Let me know what you think.

B.A. Midwood

The Blima Tales

by L.H.

translated from the German by B.A. Midwood

Silly Girls

Vienna, 1906

If my father wants to treat me like a criminal, let him! said Blima.

But he’s a violent man, Blima, said Katya. You don’t know what he could do.

That’s true. But I know what I could do, you see?

Oh, Blima, please. You must be careful.

And what does that mean to you to be careful, you silly girl? You want Yusef and me to go skulking around like criminals because we love each other?

No. Only to be a little discreet. You don’t have to go parading yourself in public, right here on the lake, where all the world can see you—do you?

And why not?

Because it’s dangerous for you both! said Katya in a burst of anger and then, biting her lip, she skated away toward the other side of the lake.

A few minutes later, though, she returned, racing clumsily across the ice—in very bad form, in fact—and interrupted Blima in the middle of a figure-eight and said in Russian something about a wonderful Italian boy: Wonderful, wonderful! A Triestine, with blue eyes and blond hair and very expensive skates!

So what do you want of me? said Blima and then she laughed and she took Katya by the hand and the two of them went off to the far side of the lake. And there they found Katya’s wonderful Italian. They skated around him, round and round, in little circles, laughing, teasing him.

What are you doing, you silly girls! he said in Italian.

He called us ‘silly girls’! said Blima in Russian.

Well, he has a lot of nerve! said Katya in Russian.

What does she say? said the Italian.

She says you have a lot of nerve! said Blima in Italian.

And so began the dialogue between Katya and the Italian with Blima as the interpreter. In short order a liaison was arranged. Katya and the Italian would meet tomorrow night at the opera house and have coffee and attend a performance of Cosi Fan Tutte.

Blima left them and began to skate back across the lake, her eyes darting this way and that, scanning the crowd, until she saw a figure in the distance—a solitary man with a red scarf, a pair of skates slung over one shoulder, emerging from the forest on the north bank. This was her friend, Yusef Hartman. She skated toward him and waved her arms. When he waved back, she paused in the middle of the lake, then watched as he sat on a stone. Quickly he put on his skates and skated over to her.

They embraced and together they skated here and there quite slowly, arm in arm. They did not speak for a while. When they did at last speak, they spoke mainly in Yiddish and sometimes they fell into the soft melodious German of the Viennese cultured classes.

She told him about Katya and the Italian.

Yusef smiled. I hope no one else will ask you to interpret this morning, he said.

Why?

I want you to myself.

Perhaps we should have met in another place.

Where?

When he said this word where, Blima’s eyes filled with tears and she tightened her grip on his arm.

Genevieve approached them.

Blima, she said in French, you must come with me—only for two little minutes. I have met a Rumanian, a giant, with the prettiest smile.

She cannot go, said Yusef in French.

You are such a brute.

Yes. I am a brute.

Please. Only two minutes.

No.

But what shall I do then? I cannot understand a word this Rumanian says. I think he wants to arrange a meeting with me.

Talk to him with your hands and those pretty eyes of yours. He’ll understand you well enough, you silly girl, believe me!

After Genevieve had gone off, Yusef said, "I have it in mind to write a poem for you about this place: Sunday On The Lake."

And what will this poem say? said Blima.

I don’t know what it will say. The words don’t matter so much. It is the picture that interests me. If I could paint, I would paint you a picture instead.

So what is this picture?

It is the frozen lake. Crowded with skaters. With their colorful scarves and so on. Just like today. Only not so bright, but gray, somber. And one thing is missing: You. You are not there. And all the lovers are skating by one another silently. Mournfully. They want to speak to one another, but they cannot, because each speaks a different language. If only Blima were here, they think, then we might speak with one another.

And do they all think this thought at the same time?

Yes.

Such an idea cannot be conveyed in a painting.

Of course it can.

No. It cannot. Be grateful you are a poet. A poem is the proper way to express such a thing.

You are very argumentative today.

By way of a reply she turned into him and lifted her face, kissing him on the mouth. She was skating backwards and he forwards. She had her eyes shut. When she opened them, she held on to him for a few moments, looking over his shoulder, and suddenly she saw coming toward her two dishwashers and a waiter from her father’s coffee house. These three were burly rough men who had worked for her father for as long as she could remember, ever since she was a little girl. They wore dark heavy coats and woolen caps and no skates, just scruffy boots, and walked across the ice as if it were no more to them than a slippery pavement. The waiter had a cigar stub in his teeth and what looked like a piece of plumbing pipe in one hand.

What does this mean? said Blima.

The poem? said Yusef.

No. These men. Look behind you.

The moment Yusef turned, they were upon him. The waiter drew a dagger from inside his coat and placed the point of the blade under Yusef’s ribs as the two dishwashers each seized one of Yusef’s arms.

If you make one sound, said the waiter in guttural low German to Blima, I will cut his guts out right here.

On the north bank of the lake the waiter cut the laces on Yusef’s skates and pulled them off.

He’ll catch his death! cried Blima.

He’ll catch worse than that if you don’t shut up, said the waiter.

Then the dishwashers dragged Yusef along on his stockinged feet toward the forest and the waiter grabbed Blima and dragged her along too. She still had her skates on and kept stumbling.

Once they all got well behind the trees, a giant clump of firs, and out of sight of the skaters on the lake, the dishwashers pushed Yusef to the ground and began to kick him everywhere and to curse at him.

After a bit the waiter stopped them and leaned over Yusef and said, You stay away from our little Blima, you got that?

Yes, said Yusef.

Good! said the waiter and he broke Yusef’s legs, just below the knees, one at a time, with the pipe. He had to hold the pipe with both hands and swing five or six times with all his might to accomplish his purpose.

Then he clapped one hand over Blima’s mouth and dragged her out to the road and put her in the back of a cart hitched to two gray horses. She knew this cart. It belonged to her father. In the driver’s seat sat Friederich Bremmer, the pastry chef. He too worked in her father’s coffee house. He would not look her in the eyes.

Presently the two dishwashers came out of the forest and got into the cart. In the distance could be heard the voice of Yusef in agony. Bremmer cracked his whip in the air and the horses set off down the road at a good pace.

Soon the cart arrived at the coffee house, which was in the heart of Vienna. Bremmer brought the horses to a halt at the rear and the two dishwashers pulled Blima from the cart and took her in the back door. They dragged her along on her skates clumsily, holding her up by the armpits, and brought her to her father in his office off to the side of the kitchen and pushed her down into a chair and left.

Her father, Herr Klau, was a tall barrel-chested man with a full beard, nearly twice her size. He went to her at once and struck her face.

I don’t care what you do, she said quietly. Kill me if you like.

He struck her again.

You’re a fanatic, she said.

He pulled her coat off and took a long flat stick from a corner and, pushing her face down on his desk, began to beat her on the back again and again.

Then he sat her in the chair once more. Her face had grown pale and her eyes were dry and dull.

He said, This Yusef, you love him. Is that not so?

It is so.

Good. Then you will do what I tell you to do or I will kill him. Do you understand?

They broke his legs!

In time the legs will mend. Meanwhile he still breathes.

Herr Klau put on his waistcoat and looked at his watch, a gold watch that he kept in a vest pocket. He said, Stay here.

And he left the room.

Erika, the chef’s helper, arrived with hot coffee and rolls and butter on a tray.

She said, Herr Klau has told me to sit with you. May I sit with you, Fraulein?

Sit.

Have coffee.

Thank you.

Blima took the coffee and sipped it. Her hands were trembling.

Erika said, Your father has chastised you with a stick, yes?

Blima nodded.

I heard, said Erika. From the kitchen. Whack, whack. Terrible. He is very stern, yes?

Yes.

You have been naughty, yes?

Yes.

On account of your Yusef, no?

Yes.

I know. I heard. Your father has forbidden you to see your Yusef and you went to see him anyway. At the lake. Bremmer told me everything.

Yes?

Only Bremmer did not tell me why. He says he does not know why. This Yusef of yours, I have seen him. He seems a nice young man. Very handsome and polite. And not poor. Is that not so?

It is so.

So why does your father forbid you to see such a nice young man who is not poor?

I cannot tell you. You will not understand.

Why? Because I am not educated?

Because you are not a Jew.

Does a Christian girl not have troubles with her father?

You have troubles with your father?

Many times he has beaten me with a stick.

Blima took Erika’s hand and said, I’m sorry.

Ach, never mind. It is nothing. I am used to it. Tell me why your father forbids you to see Yusef.

Yusef has a sister, a very pretty sister, Leah. This Leah she married a non-Jew. A Christian.

And he is poor, this Christian?

No. Not poor. Not rich either. Money is of no consequence in this affair. What is of consequence is that she married a Christian. In my father’s mind, this makes her unclean.

Ah, yes, I see. She should marry a Jew, yes?

In my father’s mind, yes.

So what does this have to do with your Yusef?

In my father’s mind, Yusef too has become unclean as a result of his sister’s marriage to a non-Jew.

Ah, yes, I see. In my family we have the same idea. This is why I never permit myself to become intimate with a Jew, not even a rich one. I would hurt my parents and my brothers. I have five brothers, did you know that?

No.

Yes, five. I am the only girl. If I were to marry a Jew, I would blacken all of them. All my brothers. And my father and mother too. All would be covered in shame.

You believe that?

Yes, Fraulein.

This is crazy.

No, it is natural. A Jew and a Christian are different animals. In God’s world you cannot mate a cat and a dog. Or a fish and a bird. Or a spider and a worm. Is that not so? Well, so, there you are!

With this triumphant