[Plain text next time please --thanks]
Channa,
thanks for this nice piece.The real name of the doctor mentioned was Brachf=
eld, not Brafeld.As a child I was often in his apartment on Bogomoltsa, rem=
ember his wife Wilma, his son Sasha and his mother in law, who we called Fr=
au Terner.Dr. Klein moved to Israel 1990 at the age of 90 (with the family =
of his niece) and dyed a year later in Beersheva.
Alex
=20
Von: Anna Kofner <akofner_at_hotmail.com>
An: CZERNOWITZ-L <CZERNOWITZ-L_at_list.cornell.edu>=20
Gesendet: 4:35 Mittwoch, 21.Januar 2015
Betreff: [Cz-L] a friend forwarded it to me. FYI
=20
6 July 2014
Igor Pomerantsev
CZERNOWITZ =E2=80=93 REMINISCENCES OF A DROWNED MAN
"My connection with Czernowitz runs deep. I can even gauge it by eye: appro=
ximately two metres. The cemeteries of this city host the remains of my aun=
ts, my grandmother, my father and my elder brother."
My connection with Czernowitz runs deep. I can even gauge it by eye: approx=
imately two metres. The cemeteries of this city host the remains of my aunt=
s, my grandmother, my father and my elder brother. Even today my bride, now=
my widow, alas, and my cousin still live there.
=C2=A0=20
I left the city in 1970, when I finished university. One of the reasons was=
simple: after graduating in English from the Faculty of Romance and German=
ic Philology I was unable to find work locally. Czernowitz, like the rest o=
f the Empire at that time, was draped with an iron curtain. There was, it i=
s true, a camp site frequented by foreign tourists, but I never managed to =
get along with the KGB, even in my youth, so I wasn=E2=80=99t allowed anywh=
ere near it. There was another reason though. I was a young man with big am=
bitions, I looked the future boldly in the eye and felt an overwhelming pas=
sion for poetry. And I believed my love would be reciprocated. I felt I was=
the equal of any capital city and would be met with applause wherever I we=
nt. I was wrong. But I left town and haven=E2=80=99t been back for nigh on =
35 years now. I simply can=E2=80=99t get down there, even when I travel to =
Kiev. I know you should do the things you=E2=80=99re frightened to, go to p=
laces you=E2=80=99re scared of, overcome fear and so on. But maybe it=E2=80=
=99s not fear I feel, but embarrassment. It=E2=80=99s like meeting a girl y=
ou once loved forty years on. You say stupid things =E2=80=93 =E2=80=9CHi t=
here!=E2=80=9D, =E2=80=9CHow=E2=80=99s life?=E2=80=9D So, I say to the city=
=E2=80=9CHow=E2=80=99s life?=E2=80=9D It looks at me sceptically, then say=
s: =E2=80=9CHow=E2=80=99s life? Well, we managed to get by without you some=
how.=E2=80=9D It=E2=80=99s true, there=E2=80=99s no way I could come out wi=
th what that old provincial, Plutarch, used to say: =E2=80=9CI live in a li=
ttle town, and as long as it doesn=E2=80=99t get any smaller, I=E2=80=99m h=
appy to stay there.=E2=80=9D Czernowitz stayed little for me, like a fly in=
amber, stilled in the memory, frozen in history. Or like my favourite dung=
aree shorts with button-down braces.
=C2=A0=20
My first encounter with the city was a huge event for me. I spent my early =
childhood in Chita, far to the east of Lake Baikal. This part of my life wa=
s in black-and-white, a period of total winter darkness. My father worked f=
or an army newspaper, On the Alert. He couldn=E2=80=99t take to the climate=
of the Far East at all and was often sick. In the end he was demobilised a=
nd we left for Czernowitz where my mother had relatives. And so I was prope=
lled from a black-and-white movie into the far Mediterranean. People say th=
at all =C3=A9migr=C3=A9s suffer from culture shock, but I didn=E2=80=99t. I=
=E2=80=99d already been immunised, and Czernowitz was the shot. Though comi=
ng from Chita, I did experience a sensual shock in Czernowitz, erotic in it=
s own childish way. I landed up in a colour movie, in a world lit by a dazz=
ling sun, where you almost lost consciousness from the scent of the white b=
lossom =E2=80=93 apple, cherry, marhul as they call apricots in Bukovina. T=
his sensory inoculation or battery keeps me warm to this day. It is probabl=
y why I have a habit of returning not to Czernowitz but to places with the =
same fragrance, the same air, the same refraction of the sun=E2=80=99s rays=
: to the graveyards of Istanbul, the hills of Tuscany, to the world of the =
near Mediterranean.
=C2=A0=20
In my childhood I pedalled all over the city on my =E2=80=9CLittle Eagle=E2=
=80=9D cycle, and thanks to the steep streets came to understand what was m=
eant by the phrase =E2=80=9Cbreakneck speed=E2=80=9D. I also liked to explo=
re Czernowitz on foot. I had my favourite routes of course. I lived on Lerm=
ontov Street which came out onto Kobylanskaya. If you walk up Lermontov, cr=
oss what used to be Lenin Street and the tram tracks, walk through the shop=
ping arcade which used to be called Passazh =E2=80=93 and probably still is=
=E2=80=93 cross two more streets and come up to the university assembly ha=
ll, you=E2=80=99ll wind up on the corner of my first romantic rendezvous. I=
had another dramatic route. Drop down Kobylanskaya to the main square, the=
n turn left in the direction of the old synagogue, which, incidentally, was=
not destroyed by the Romanian fascists but blown up by the communists =E2=
=80=93 there=E2=80=99s a cinema there now =E2=80=93 go past this cinema and=
into the pharmacy on the corner... I don=E2=80=99t know if it=E2=80=99s st=
ill there. At the very beginning of the 60s, after my father had his first =
heart attack, I used to run down to this pharmacy every day and return home=
with two oxygen pillows. Maybe old residents still remember a hot, flushed=
little boy always running about the centre of town with oxygen pillows. Th=
at boy was me.
=C2=A0=20
How was Czernowitz different from other Ukrainian cities? At the end of the=
50s we still had a handful of Austrian Jews in residence. They were unlike=
anybody else, and totally different from the stilyagi, as the Soviet teddy=
boys were called. The stilyagi all dressed the same: Bologna raincoats, wh=
ite flat caps with grey pinstripes. The handful of Austrian Jews wore batte=
red dark blue velour hats, grey double-breasted houndstooth coats, worn-out=
shoes with narrow toes, matt marble-effect cuff-links, and all of their st=
uff was old, almost ancient. These were their working clothes, yet looked s=
o stylish! For me Czernowitz was always this prehistoric Austrian Jew dumpe=
d by a time machine in a Soviet zoo. In the second half of the 20th century=
the city fell out of the European fashion mainstream, like the velour hats=
and gray double-breasted coats, but it stayed elegant, it stepped out in s=
tyle, even if down at heel.
=C2=A0=20
In the Soviet Empire Czernowitz was a Jewish town. Incidentally, in German =
literature, too, it was always referred to as =E2=80=9CJewish=E2=80=9D. In =
the mid-50s only a fifth of the city=E2=80=99s population was Jewish, and o=
f those the Austrians were a minority, the majority were Bessarabian. But J=
ews have a powerful energy field. Even if they are comparatively few =E2=80=
=93 thirty thousand or so =E2=80=93 they make the weather in a city. Even a=
s a child I knew there were Jews in Kiev, in Moscow, in Leningrad, but Jews=
in the
capitals all seemed respectable, rich, prosperous, while in Czernowitz we h=
ad all sorts =E2=80=93 bums, prostitutes, killers, currency speculators, wu=
nderkinds. Humpback Jews wandered the streets, contraband matzos loaded ont=
o their humps. We had more than just Jewish lumpen, of course. There were f=
amous boxers and wrestlers, who made the Olympic team and world championshi=
ps. It seemed to me, when I was little, that Jews were great sportsmen, esp=
ecially the wrestlers and boxers.
=C2=A0=20
As a child I felt I lived in Israel, only it was called Czernowitz. It was =
my father who first told me about this. When I asked if he had ever been ab=
road, he said: =E2=80=9CWe live abroad.=E2=80=9D But he never explained whe=
re abroad or how abroad. I was aware of the existence of the state of Israe=
l from an early age. People used to leave for Palestine even during the chi=
lliest snaps of the cold war. I was very sympathetic towards Israel. In the=
60s it was the Jewish riff-raff who left: abandoned mothers with snot-nose=
d brats, cripples left to rot in storerooms by caring relatives, recidivist=
s, poets who wrote in Yiddish, a language of no use to anyone. It was only =
a trickle, but one which, it seemed to me, might pollute the pure reservoir=
s of Israel whichhad been created by Jewish genius in the desert. When my y=
oung Jewish friends left school, to spite the low-lifes and losers they wen=
t off to Siberia and got their PhDs in mathematics and physics by the age o=
f fifteen. I didn=E2=80=99t think very deeply why they chose Siberia. It wa=
s very much in the spirit of the Jules Verne novels I was reading at the ti=
me, and the fact of a quota for Jewish students at Ukrainian universities w=
as too banal for me. But the trickle steadily swelled, widened, and then bu=
rst its banks. America was never in vogue in Czernowitz. Everyone went to I=
srael. It seemed to me that I must know everyone in the new Israel by name,=
as they surely all came from Czernowitz. I stood so close to the stream, t=
hat in the end I, too, was washed away and carried off. But it wasn=E2=80=
=99t until I was almost forty that I actually went to Israel. It turned out=
to be a huge country after all, with a huge population. And I didn=E2=80=
=99t come across a single one of those Czernowitz =E2=80=9CIsraelis=E2=80=
=9D, neither by the Dead Sea, nor in Jerusalem, nor in Kfar-Darom.
=C2=A0=20
I remember my father=E2=80=99s friends. He worked on the local Ukrainian-la=
nguage paper, Soviet Bukovina. My father was born in Odessa and knew the th=
ree languages, Russian, Ukrainian and Yiddish, which were part of the Odess=
a air. I well remember the Jewish poet who wrote in Yiddish, Meyer Kharatz,=
whose works became classics in Israel. He was a survivor, who managed to c=
ome out alive from the Holocaust and the Gulag where he also did his time. =
At the end of the 50s they decided to finish the job after he published som=
e poems abroad in a Polish Jewish paper without permission. The Party cell =
at Soviet Bukovina worked him over. I don=E2=80=99t think my father had any=
part in it, otherwise Kharatz wouldn=E2=80=99t have come straight over to =
our place after the Party meeting at the office. A little grey sparrow of a=
man, he sat at our table and said nothing. Then suddenly he began to recit=
e his poems in Yiddish. Neither I nor my mother, who was raised in Russian-=
speaking Kharkov, understood a word. I was 12, and for me Yiddish was the l=
anguage of the plebs, of semi-basements, of people cut off from high cultur=
e: cawing from a rookery, not a language. And now while I was listening to =
the eagle-like rasp of Meyer Kharatz reciting his poems, I became suddenly =
aware of poetry=E2=80=99s purpose, that is to give language wings. I rememb=
er this winged Yiddish to this day.
=C2=A0=20
My father often took me for walks around the city, and he would surreptitio=
usly point out talented Ukrainian writers, Volodimir Bablyak, Roman Andriya=
shik. I would make straight for them, of course, while my father tried to h=
old me back. Even now I can see the tension in their faces, as though they =
were carrying weights. Only later, in 1972, when I moved to Kiev, a city fr=
ozen by fear after the nationalist crackdown, did I understood what weights=
Bablyak and Andriyashik were carrying and why they died young. Another loc=
al celebrity was Khoma the gangster. I was well
acquainted with his younger brother, a halfwit generally known as Blyum who=
was friendly with my elder brother. One day a small-time hooligan by the n=
ame of Shmok was stupid enough to whack Blyum between the eyes. As soon as =
he=E2=80=99d done it he realised he=E2=80=99d made a mistake and rushed off=
to Kobylanskaya to apologise to Khoma. Khoma heard him out, then calmly kn=
ocked him out cold. After his first stretch inside, our town was too small =
for Khoma and he relocated to the richer pickings of Lvov. It took him less=
than a year to make the place sit up and notice. Then he tamed West Berlin=
. Khoma and Blyum were devoted sons. After making their first =C3=A9migr=C3=
=A9 million, they shipped in their invalid father from the USSR, but the ol=
d man=E2=80=99s heart gave out at a height of eight thousand metres and the=
brothers met a corpse at the airport. Blyum didn=E2=80=99t make it to fort=
y. He died of a brain tumour, while Khoma had his throat slit in Munich by =
one of his own boys, Timokha or Tengiz, one or the other. So the entire fam=
ily vanished into Czernowitz myth and legend. I also recall an inspired pro=
stitute called Fira, better known on the street as Fellatina. I dreamed abo=
ut her from the age of 12. But by the time I was able to live the dream, Fi=
ra had vanished, carried off by the winds of emigration to Haifa, to the jo=
y of the local dockers and sailors and the dismay of the local whores. In H=
aifa Fira brought the general tariff down drastically, without, however, co=
mpromising the quality of her services.
=C2=A0=20
My friends and I would devour books, but we were still little barbarians. W=
e couldn=E2=80=99t feel solid ground under our feet. We had no idea what ve=
ins of gold we were trampling, what priceless ruins we walked over. We were=
not run-of-the-mill barbarians, of course. We had Russian, American, and F=
rench literature in us, but barbarism is the absence of memory, historical,=
cultural memory. It wasn=E2=80=99t our fault. They had deprived us of memo=
ry. I first heard of Paul Celan when his name was borne to Czernowitz on wi=
nds from Kiev. Only then did I seek out people in Czernowitz who had been a=
t school with him, been his friends. I remember going in 1972 to see the Ki=
ev modernist poet Mykola Bazhan, who was also a member of the Central Commi=
ttee of the Communist Party of Ukraine =E2=80=93 I was taken to see him by =
another Ukrainian poet from Czernowitz, Moses Fishbein =E2=80=93 and how to=
uchingly, how respectfully Bazhan spoke about Czernowitz and Paul Celan. Th=
e capital knew more and had a deeper understanding of history.
=C2=A0=20
Old Czernowitz was a crossroads of cultures. Pasternak has a line about the=
=E2=80=9Cair rent with cries=E2=80=9D. The air of Czernowitz was rent with=
cries, groans, sighs in German, Yiddish, Ukrainian, Hungarian, Romanian, P=
olish, Russian. Photographers work with light and shade, composers with ser=
ies of sounds, while a writer works with language. It doesn=E2=80=99t requi=
re great imagination to appreciate the richness of the linguistic backgroun=
d, the linguistic landscape of Czernowitz. I called it a =E2=80=9Cwaft of t=
ongues=E2=80=9D. Out of this polyphony poetry was born. Capital cities esta=
blish the classic criteria, define standards, but the provinces are the rea=
l capitals of modernism. Because out in the sticks the bookish young polish=
their blood. How can their deviance and hyper-emotion be quenched by the s=
crolls and curlicues of the Secession? But curvature of cornice and gable c=
an carry impressionable young people far. Heinrich Heine had the notion tha=
t periods of decline reek of subjectivity. This was said disapprovingly, if=
anything. For me, though, this thought is simply a diagnosis. When all aro=
und is falling apart =E2=80=93 empires, canons, reputations =E2=80=93 who d=
o you rely on, if not yourself? So you become =E2=80=9Csubjective=E2=80=9D =
and work with your own =E2=80=9CI=E2=80=9D, you refract reality as you see =
fit, because you are fraught, pregnant with =E2=80=9Csubjectivity=E2=80=9D.
=C2=A0=20
Of the Czernowitz writers, I feel an affinity with Gregor, aka Grisha. I wo=
uldn=E2=80=99t risk saying he was close to me in a literary sense: he wrote=
prose, not poetry. His official name was Gregor, though to the grave he wo=
uld call himself by the childish Grisha when you met him. It was the irony =
of the aristocrat. Grisha=E2=80=99s full name was Gregor von Rezzori. In hi=
s prose he referred to Czernowitz as Chernopol. He was close to me in lifes=
tyle. Recently the Russian artist Viktor Pivovarov, who lives in Prague, ga=
ve me a painted plate inscribed =E2=80=9Cto the joyful melancholic=E2=80=9D=
. That=E2=80=99s how he sees me. I think that Gregor =E2=80=93 Grisha =E2=
=80=93 von Rezzori was a joyful melancholic. He worked as a radio journalis=
t. I, too, have toiled as an =E2=80=9Caerial acrobat=E2=80=9D for nigh on t=
hirty years. He wrote cookery books, acted in movies with Brigitte Bardot, =
no less. He was close to me in style and temperament. I can boast of a coup=
le of monographs on wine, though I=E2=80=99m no match for Grisha, of course=
. In the end he preferred Italy to Germany. There he lived, there he died. =
And his route took him from the far Mediterranean to the near.
=C2=A0=20
In Paul Celan I like the pauses and caesuras. His syntax. He experienced th=
e death of his parents in a Romanian camp, and he himself was imprisoned in=
a labour camp. It was then, I believe, that his heart stopped. For him the=
caesuras and pauses between the words, between the grammatical structures =
are not an avant-garde affectation, but pauses between heartbeats. His resp=
onse to Theodore Adorno=E2=80=99s rhetorical question =E2=80=9Cis it possib=
le to write poetry after Auschwitz?=E2=80=9D was not rhetorical, but poems.=
And here is something else I am grateful to Celan for. He was an invisible=
poet, a ghost poet. Vitebsk was daubed by Chagall from head to foot. You c=
an=E2=80=99t take a step in Dublin without stumbling, tripping over a sente=
nce from Joyce. In Celan, even in his most tragic verse, you hear no diffic=
ulty in breathing. He left behind no junk, immovable furniture, blood or sw=
eat stains.
=C2=A0=20
Czernowitz was also a city of great doctors. Brafeld, Klein, Kroshkin =E2=
=80=93 everyone in the city knew their names. The doctors pronounced their =
sentence, appealed to God, their God =E2=80=93 Asclepius =E2=80=93, and obt=
ained a review of the case, a reprieve. Brafeld would come =E2=80=93 the Uk=
rainians called him Brachfeld =E2=80=93 and shout at my mother and father: =
=E2=80=9COpen the window, let the frost in, otherwise your son will die!=E2=
=80=9D And then would leave. A magician=E2=80=99s scarlet cloak swirled aro=
und his shoulders. Nobody in either the Old or New World ever gave a more e=
xact diagnosis. Our magicians had to grow especially sensitive antennae and=
probosces, seeing the laboratory of Wihelm R=C3=B6ntgen and Franck=E2=80=
=99s needles as the height of progress on the outer lip of the empire. Reca=
lling now these Czernowitz wizards with their satin cloaks, I abandon athei=
sm. Faith is the smell of benylin in the nursery, the cold of someone=E2=80=
=99s fingers probing the abdomen, the print of a stethoscope on the shoulde=
r blade. How can I be an atheist, when my nursery felt the presence of Braf=
eld, Klein and Kroshkin?
=C2=A0=20
Dissidents can be not only people, but towns. The architecture of Czernowit=
z in the Soviet empire was dissident. Walking past these buildings, living =
in them, you could not help but be infected by their spirit. It was a dissi=
dent town which gave us, its inhabitants, lessons in beauty, liberty, duty.=
Czernowitz was a quotation, from another epoch. One which only the most su=
btle connoisseurs could parse. A quotation from the wonderful Austrian poet=
s who lived there between the two world wars. Walking around the city, you =
walked around a quote. You read it. The former city is no more. What remain=
ed were fragments of sentences, splinters of words which had penetrated the=
consciousness, the cultural environment of the German and Austrian reader.
=C2=A0=20
There is a child=E2=80=99s game =E2=80=93 =E2=80=9CFreeze!=E2=80=9D Between=
the wars Czernowitz =E2=80=9Cfroze=E2=80=9D. It lived its own life, not ex=
pecting, not anticipating the Holocaust. It was a city of bookworms, with m=
any memoirs written about it, including one by Rose Ausl=C3=A4nder. In 1978=
I landed in Germany and my friend, who taught in a German gymnasium, calle=
d Ausl=C3=A4nder, who lived in D=C3=BCsseldorf. =E2=80=9CYou don=E2=80=99t =
know me=E2=80=9D, she said, =E2=80=9Cbut I=E2=80=99m calling because I have=
a friend, a Russian poet from Czernowitz, who you might be interested to m=
eet.=E2=80=9D By that time Rose Ausl=C3=A4nder had won many awards, she was=
a celebrity, a classic. =E2=80=9CI=E2=80=99d like to=E2=80=9D, she replied=
, =E2=80=9Cbut at the moment I=E2=80=99m not well enough.=E2=80=9D She trul=
y was unwell, with a serious form of arthritis, she could no longer write a=
nd had to dictate her poetry, but I think her real reason was different. Sh=
e once wrote that Czernowitz was a =E2=80=9Ctown drowning=E2=80=9D. The ima=
ge of the city as Atlantis was hers. So I think she was probably put off by=
the thought of meeting someone who lived and wrote poetry at the bottom of=
a drowned city. It meant someone had settled in her Atlantis. And my physi=
cal presence, talking about poetry and the simple fact that I wrote would s=
hatter her crystal image of the drowning city. She didn=E2=80=99t want to m=
eet a drowned man.
=C2=A0=20
While I was living in Czernowitz I almost never wrote about Czernowitz. But=
no sooner had I moved to Kiev than I instantly saw it at its full height:
=C2=A0=20
FROM THE AUTHOR
=C2=A0=20
Away all doubts! The reader is not fearful,
The reader likes the sharpest razor blades.
He would be glad to die along with me
Beneath a desk-lamp, from a bursting windpipe.
Am I mistaken? Well, let=E2=80=99s not evade
Mistakes I have committed, nor my insights.
Why be bashful? When young, my little town
Drilled into bad taste, a lasting lesson =E2=80=93
Where pathos lingered, beauty lingered too,
Where life and death collided =E2=80=93 that=E2=80=99s where art was.
Get on the saddle. Bicycle=E2=80=99s at hand.
A one, a two. And off we fly. The fading
Familiar faces. Just the temple throb,
And an anorak that billows out behind me.
Hold on more tightly. Cable grips are snapped.
For us there can be no more thought of stopping.
A garden, look. That boy there: on his lips
There=E2=80=99s cherryade, loose braces over shoulders.
The poplar=E2=80=99s silver down and peeping through,
The Jewish quarter, like a home-baked loaf
With garlic well rubbed-in. Old women=E2=80=99s eyes.
Just look. Inhale. You=E2=80=99ll understand that fear
Along with water bursts out from the standpipes.
And tyres go hissing on. How steep the slope.
And dust gets in the tickles in the nostrils.
Now something stings my face. My ears still hear
It ring =E2=80=9CI love you!=E2=80=9D. Tears held back by wind-force
Which brings salvation.
Sheer drops of arms. Cliff faces. How frail
The cheerful whipping air-stream.
Dragonflies
Have made it seem transparent now and lighter,
Fragrant of cornflowers. Far away
The frontier, and railway carriage bustle,
The customs scrutiny. The mother of my friend
Now boards. Once more, once more, one final effort.
No helping them. The saddle-bag drums on.
We fly, dear reader! Spokes and sinews flexing.
I am here. With you. I=E2=80=99d love to take you too
Not down the hillside, but past the lip of nothing,
If only doubt would vanish...
=C2=A0=20
Czernowitz is a city with a secret. And a mystery. The secret first. There =
are towns which are not only lucky, they deserve their luck. I mean towns w=
hich have been smiled on by God, even with just a tiny curl of His lip. But=
why did they attract his attention? Culture has its own logic, its own mag=
netic fields. Well then, God looked down on Czernowitz, didn=E2=80=99t look=
even, His ear just caught a faint sound, detected a rustle, an overflow of=
diphthongs and phonemes, a patchwork of languages, and was astonished by t=
he miraculous draft rising up from this mere dot on the globe. A linguistic=
thermal. As for the mystery, it=E2=80=99s within us. The mystery is the wo=
rk of our imagination, it is the cellars and attics of our memory, and as l=
ong as they exist, Czernowitz will continue to be a mystery c
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Received on 2015-01-22 09:03:06