Resurrections from the Dustbin of History
Bloomsbury, 1992, original paperback.
Published in the US by Four Walls Eight Windows 1995 as
THE RESURRECTIONS.
Rachel
New York, November 19:
Sitting in my apartment on West 83rd with two empty suitcases before
me and the flotsman of ten years all around. How to get as much of
this into these as possible. Or dump the lot. Set forth across the
Atlantic with a toothbrush, the pills and sanitary requisites and one
week's underwear and redarned socks. Leave the old life behind. Start
the new clean, if not cleaned out...
Bring on the wastebin, now: The morning's mint-fresh rejection letter,
latest of the mounting pile -'Dear Miss Levy, we have read your offer "Terror
Campaign 1961" and it does have some new insights into what is
after all an old story but not enough, we think, to justify its publication.
There have been numerous books about the Hitler Campaign and we do
not feel the market can bear another at this stage. Yours sincerely
... blah blah blah.'
Don't rock the boat, girl, in this era of Rockefeller `stabilisation',
none of them old negative vibes! Ghosts of the past. No thank you.
Keep the skeletons locked in the closet. In fact there have only been
three books, as far as I can remember, but ... tear it up, girl, into
the bin it goes.
Preserve, acceptance note from London Film Academy, which will be pleased to
see both Rachel Levy and her cheque lined up for the coming January term. Signed,
Patrick Kinross, Principal. Gottseidank! An escape route at last! Exchange the
betrayals of the written word for the hopes of the celluloid image. Learn something
new, instead of chewing a stale old cud...
Halloween masks and paper hats, where did those come from? Into the wastebin
they go. Old Nemsweeks and faded Time covers: President Joe McCarthy, the UnAmerican
Hearings, circa 1954 ... Senators Nixon and Hitler pyre behind old Joe, the all-party
glee club, before it all fell apart ... 1953 - the old warrior Chu Teh and the
`Fall of China'... and the fallout of'52 - the `Atomic Menace' issues, the sickly
weeds of the Los Angeles Bomb. Your List of Atomic Diseases, What to Look Out
for in your West Coast Friends. Eyewitness reports of the L.A. Holocaust and
our own Tokyo revenge. Sick, sick, sick! Memories you wouldn't want to carry
in your baggage, if you dare leave them out...
Whaddaya know - the old man himself, Leon Trotsky, Man Of The Year 1956. His
fifth `Renewed Revolution'. An impressive Topolsky head. My father would have
certainly mourned his passing. `If we had our own Bronstein,' he used to say,
`he'd have soon put all the Nixons, Smiths, Hiders in one bag and pitched the
lot in the East River. He could never abide a double-dealer, even in his own
camp! That son of a bitch Stalin, for example - to the wall, one volley, and
goodbye Charlie!'
My Pa. And what have we here? Truly ancient leaflets in Yiddish, scan over the
once familiar Hebrew script: `Workers and Intellectuals of South Manhattan Unite!'
Forgotten prehistories - Papa, trudging in a February blizzard to attend, like
the most devout believer, the I.W.W. Saturday afternoon debates, all the old
saws grinding away: Permanent versus Renewed Revolution, Syndicalism, the Mass
Strike, the merits of Rosa versus Leon, did Luxemburg sell out? Was Liebknecht
a Revisionist? Over the chess tables of Washington Square Papa and his cronies
would range wild over world affairs, castigating Wall Street, the decaying British
Empire, German Soviet Restructuring, the German-Russian cold war. Papa, true
to his Silesian origins, was a staunch Luxemburgite, and his admiration of Trotsky
was tinged by doubts as to the rigour of Industrial Terror. Mom had no truck
with any of this, as she glared at him through the stretched out pages of Formaerts,
galled over the uneaten supper: `Trotsky, Protsky! first he starves the poor
Russians, then he gets to work on my husband. Just a rag doll, Nachman Levy!'
The puppet dance of the blasted expectations of both, laid to rest now, bless
their souls, as I rushed out, on my own, God, so stereotyped revolt -
More Hebrew now, in the `Holy Tongue' itself - Kibbutz Ashpatot's stencilled
newsletter, Palestine, 1963: Shattering success of the '62 fig harvest, Arab
infiltrator from the Nazareth Canton killed at the security fence, League of
Nations (i.e. British) patrol finds arms slick in neighbouring Kibbutz Matta,
Zvika the librarian sues for divorce. A fitting candidate for the wastebin. My
God! The search for Jewish roots ending in the overwhelming smell of radishes
and the sweaty embrace of Shraga, unhappily married kibbutz treasurer ... Some
people are not born for a return to the soil and religio-ethnic pride, even in
the heat of the struggle still ongoing for a Jewish State (chimera or not, not
this sacrificial lamb...) No, it's a different quest for me...
Lost chapters, volumes of my life lie scattered, upturned on the carpet. A stack
of letters from Marvin Blumenfeld, Jesus Christ! Save us, Lord, from First Loves.
The mattress at Aunt Katie's. Why did I preserve all these old words? An aspiring
Proust, with no memory. But the reading brings back no enlightenment, just a
sort of nauseous flu. Embarassment at these adolescent gushings. Enough, down
the hatch with you too.
Boxes of knick knacks, horrible candles from Jerusalem, fake Aztec relics from
Mexico City (when did I go there? ah, yes ... ), jingling bells from who knows
where - discard, discard, discard ... Keep the old Times and Nemsmeeks though
- history, that dies hard ... Bundles of more letters, old typewriter ribbons,
abandoned notes for half a dozen novels, art catalogues, tubes of rock-hard gouache,
moulted paint brushes, pictures of the dead Stars - Bogart, Gable, Bette Davis,
Stanwyck, the grisly hall of bombed fame ... Boldly divide: This pile out, this
to storage with Sarah Nichols in the Bronx. The vital books and records already
sent on by boat - Parker, Mingus, Happy Turner, Steinbeck, Mark Twain, Alice
Rathbone whom McCarthy killed . . . some of my life will nevertheless follow
me. And a copy too, one can't avoid it, of the Terror manuscript. Perhaps over
in Europe ... pigs might fly ... But the old adage - you can't leave yourself
behind...
The apartment buzzer, Sarah Nicols at the door, the van ready, parked as close
as she can. The laconic drawl of my friend at the doorphone. Come on up. Time
to move, Rachel, time to go. All the goodbyes said ,that had to be said, all
the telephone calls made that had to be made, all the addresses taken that had
to be taken. Anything left then, to keep me here? Let's go, let's go...
 |
| |
|
|
|
