Holocaust Memorial Day

Today marks the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau by the Red Army.

"Hurbinek was a nobody, a child of death, a child of Auschwitz, he looked about three years old, no-one knew anything of him, he could not speak and he had no name; that curious name Hurbinek, had been given to him by us, perhaps by one of the women who had interpreted with those syllables one of the inarticulate sounds that the baby let out now and again. He was paralysed from the waist down, with atrophied legs, as thin as sticks; but his eyes, lost in his triangular and wasted face, flashed terribly alive, full of demand, assertion, of the will to break loose, to shatter the tomb of his dumbness. The speech he lacked, which no one had bothered to teach him, the need of speech charged his stare with explosive urgency: it was a stare both savage and human, even mature, a judgement, which none of us could support, so heavy was it with force and anguish.

None of us, that is, except Henek; he was in the bunk next to me, a robust and hearty Hungarian boy of fifteen. Henek spent half the day beside Hurbinek's pallet. He was maternal rather than paternal; had our precarious co-existence lasted more than a month, it is extremely probable that Hurbinek would have learnt to speak from Henek; certainly better than from the Polish girls who, too tender and too vain, inebriated him with kisses and caresses, but shunned intimacy with him.

Henek on the other hand, calm and stubborn, sat beside the little sphinx, immune to the distressing power he emanated; he brought him food to eat, adjusted his blankets, cleaned him with skilful hands, without repugnance, and he spoke to him in Hungarian naturally, in a slow and patient voice. -After a week, - Hurbinek could say a word, what word? It was difficult to know.

During the night we listened carefully. - It was true, from Hurbinek's corner came a word- it was not admittedly always the same word, but it was certainly an articulated word: or better, several slightly different articulated words experimental variations on a theme, on a root, perhaps a name.

Hurbinek continued his stubborn experiments for as long as he lived. In the following days everybody listened to him in silence, anxious to understand, and among us there were speakers of all the languages of Europe; but Hurbinek's word remained a secret. - Perhaps it was his name, perhaps it meant "to eat" or "bread".

Hurbinek was perhaps three years old born in Auschwitz and had never seen a tree, who fought like a man, to the last breath, to gain entry into the world of men from which a bestial power had excluded him; Hurbinek, the nameless, whose tiny forearm - even his, bore the tattoo of Auschwitz; Hurbinek died in the first days of March 1945, free but not redeemed. Nothing remains of him: he bears witness through these words of mine."

Primo Levi, If This is a Man

Blistering Barnacles and Thundering Typhoons! - The Tintin Factor

Those who know me will be aware that I've always held a place in my heart for the adventures of the boy reporter, Tintin.  The intrepid investigator first burst into my life when I was a kid, that iconic and dramatic "dun-dun-dun" theme tune booming out of the television, drawing you in to whatever international plot awaited.  The stories were always sophisticated, involved and utterly enthralling, and this enjoyment has never left me although, as I grew older, I started to find an equal, if not greater pleasure, through the Tintin books. A few years ago I started collecting these and, this New Year, I added the final few of books to my collection, forming a complete library of the Belgian reporter's finest investigations.

Captain Haddock and Tintin in The Secret of the Unicorn

Thomson and Thompson in Land of Black Gold

I absolutely love this series of books.  The artwork is second-to-none, phenomenal given its time, with a detail given to each and every frame that today's comic book artists could certainly learn from.  Equally important in this respect, I've collected the series in hardback, which really shows off the quality and genius of the cover art.  Now, we all know that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but these covers are simply beautiful, proper works of art in their own right, front pages that whet the appetite and invite you to delve a little deeper.

Perhaps what stands out best for me is the depth to which Hergé produced every single one of the characters, across 24 books.  And there are a lot of characters - beyond Tintin, Captain Haddock, Professor Calculus and Snowy lie a whole host of supporting personalities, many regulars throughout the series.  There's Interpol's finest detectives, Thomson and Thompson, criminal mastermind Rastapopoulos, Milanese opera singer Bianca Castafiore, evil dictator General Tapioca, colourful (if not drunkard) military officer General Alcazar... In fact, the list extends to nearly one hundred individuals playing out their lives in both real and fictional parts of the globe, an amazing feat of imagination on the part of the author, created to fit Tintin's adventures into a more realistic world.  Indeed, of all the series' characters, it is Tintin himself that is perhaps the most beige.  As Harry Thompson, radio and TV producer, novelist, and author of Hergé and His Creation said: 

"Tintin is almost featureless, ageless, sexless, and did not appear to be burdened with a personality.  Yet this very anonymity remains the key to Tintin's gigantic international success.  With so little to mark him out, anybody from Curaçao to Coventry can identify with him and live out his adventures..."

The result of this undeniably genius casting makes for brilliant viewing or, as I'm now finding out, brilliant reading, for children and adults alike.  And what better what to escape the drab, cold January evenings than to slip into a world of exotic adventure and intrigue?

A hero's parade in Tintin in America

A plane crash and a missing friend takes Tintin to Tibet

So, what are the origins of this wonderful adventure series?  Well the reporter's creator, Georges Remi - Hergé - was employed as an illustrator at Le Vingtieme Siecle, a Belgian newspaper based not far from Brussels.  Hergé rose to be appointed editor of the Thursday youth supplement, but soon became dissatisfied with his role, and started his own cartoon strip instead, adapting the new innovation of speech balloons to depict words coming out of the characters' mouths.  Hergé already had experience with creating comic strips, having written Les Adventures de Totor, about a boy scout with a strong resemblance to Tintin.  Tintin as we know him first came to print in 1929, when Tintin in the Land of the Soviets was serialised.  Hergé had wanted to send his new hero to America, but was ordered by newspaper boss, Abbe Norbert Wallez, to send Tintin to the Soviet Union, to provide anti-socialist propaganda for the right-wing newspaper.  The cartoon proved popular, and so more stories followed - Tintin in the Congo, Tintin in America, Tintin and the Cigars of the Pharaoh, The Blue Lotus, The Broken Ear, The Black Island, then King Ottokar's Sceptre were all serialised and released in black-and-white before the outbreak of a Second World War that would change the direction of Tintin forever.  What happened then, and what happened afterwards, will be the subject of a future blog.

Totor, sometimes referred to as "Tintin's younger brother"

Tintin meets a lifelong friend in The Crab with the Golden Claws

So that's my collection complete and, as with so many of my interests, it's a collection that has a free history lesson thrown in for good measure!  Now I'm sure I know all the stories off by heart already, but there's no harm in revisiting some classics, so if anybody wants me, I'll be in the reading chair...

Merry Christmas!

"The days are coming," declares the Lord,

"when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch,

a King who will reign wisely

and do what is just and right in the land.

In his days Judah will be saved

and Israel will live in safety.

This is the name by which he will be called:

The Lord Our Righteous Saviour."

Jeremiah 23:5-6

Christmas Eve!

A Visit From St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung up by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

 When a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer!  Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet!  On, Cupid!  On Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch!  To the top of the wall!

Now dash away!  Dash away!  Dash away all!

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes - how they twinkled!  His dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement Clarke Moore

There’s no Christmas like a home Christmas

So sung Perry Como, and I think he's pretty spot on with those lyrics.

We’ve been hard at work since blogging Back to TQ12 in October, getting one thing after another sorted and slowly turning our house into our home.  The sparkies came in and made safe the electrics, fitted a new fuse box and took out that delightful burnt-out wire in the airing cupboard (hmmm, burnt wire, dry linen, I can spot a potential problem…)  The plumbers have been in, ripped out the bathroom and replaced it with a brand new suite, installed a proper shower, tiled and laid a new floor, whilst also putting in a brand new boiler and removing the old water tank from the loft.  The aerial chaps have put a new TV aerial up for us and laid a new cable to replace the one that was leaking water into the lounge.  The garage door folks dropped by and fitted a nice new up-and-over.  We've taken delivery of a tumble drier, a fridge-freezer, a dishwasher, a sofa bed, an armchair, a dining table, bookshelves, cabinets and a fish tank, whilst all the while painting, painting, painting!

There’s still a lot to do, of course, but our efforts have aligned perfectly with the Christmas break, and we’re both looking forward to celebrating in our new home.  The usual decorations have made their seasonal re-appearance, spearheaded by my colourful cast of nutcrackers (sorry Lizzie!)  I started collecting these a few years ago when I picked one up in York, and since then I’ve acquired soldiers, counts, toy-makers, jesters, pirates, and one particularly interesting guard who looks like he's come straight out of a fantastical arctic kingdom. 

In the dining room, meanwhile, Christmas has arrived in Legoland, with a winter wonderland street scene of carollers, ice skaters and market-goers.  It’s a Cockington-meets-Cologne sort of place, capturing the bustle of Christmas Eve and the good-natured community spirit of old, where the townspeople would enjoy a carousel, and gather to watch as the star was placed lovingly upon the town square tree.

Talking of trees, the main event is standing proud in the lounge.  We’ve bought our first ever tree, a six-footer, and hung up many of our old favourites – some pre-dating both of us, others from childhood, and a few that we’ve bought at Christmas markets since.  I love tree decorations as they really tell a story and have a strong power to evoke memories.  The ceramic star from Salzburg, a nativity scene from Grandma, the home-made choirboys from Mum – visions of Christmas past, when as kids we used to love hanging charms on every branch, and remember (almost fondly) the year the tree toppled over and flung soil onto carpet, sofa, curtains and all.

So, Christmas has arrived at Number 3, and it’s shaping up to be a very merry one indeed.  I’m really looking forward to a few days off after a manic period at work, to indulge a little in some good food and drink, catch up on some festive films, and start working my way through a mountain of books.  And in the company of good people, what more could you possibly want?