The Jew from Subotica

The old man sat fingering his glass of fresh lemon, staring across the cafe tables in the strong September sunlight through darkened glasses. He was alone. I asked him if I might sit with him. I thought he might be glad of some company, as was I, and always it is interesting to listen to someone's story.

Sure enough, he had much to tell. He was born here in Subotica. He was a Jew. Before the Second World War some 400,000 Jews lived in Subotica. Today there are perhaps 150. Most were transported by rail to Auschwich and perished. This man had gone but was a survivor. After the war he had returned to his birthplace to find that the property of most Jews had been taken by the newly formed communist government. They encouraged Jews to leave and head for Israel, to the fledgling Israeli state that was providing a haven for thousands of displaced and persecuted Jews. 

He had married, and his wife had born him two daughters, now themselves mothers and living in Tel Aviv. He had been a jeweller and had made good money. Now, against the wishes of his family (because he was an old man of 80), he had wanted to return to the land of his nativity.

So, there he was, sitting in the sunshine, reflecting on a lifetime of memories. Not far away the Jewish synagogue stood in disrepair, a monument to the terrible events that had overtaken his people and changed the direction of his own life. The synagogue had been splendid in its heyday. Now only the bats, the mice and the birds and the spiders found shelter under its damaged roof.

I had to leave. He thanked me for listening to him. As I walked away along the street where young mothers, business people and workmen passed on their way, with schoolchildren, stylish girls and babies, he remained in his seat at the cafe table, the sun shining down on his frail figure and bald head. He waved and smiled and returned to his thoughts, reaching out to take another sip of cold lemon juice.

In the eye of the beholder

I gaze at you gazing at yourself
In the mirror that faithfully reflects
Your naked body

To you it is a little
Loose in parts
Maybe your belly too full?
Breasts, two hanging fruits,
Curvy thighs, as you turn
To contemplate your soft bottom -
Thinking in your head of that model,
Sculpted, honed and svelte.

I see him gazing too
Looking with eyes of love
At that warm body
His comfort and delight
Aroused as he looks upon
The beauteous form
Feasting on places where soft pleasures
Come flowing and gifts abound.

Can you not see what he sees?
Can you not see what I see he sees?
My anxious friend
Blushing in your modesty
You are beautiful simply

Because you are beautiful.

Last leg of the journey

Debrecen railway station has the hallmarks of the former communist regime in Hungary. The platforms are bare and getting from one to the other with a heavy suitcase requires strength and patience. You have to go down stairs to a passageway under the tracks, coming up into the grey concrete and glass of a dull functional building - except that the waiting room also functions as a place for hopeless-looking drop-outs.

It was reassuring to clamber onto an old tram once more, cancelling my ticket in the little machine attached to the handrail inside. The ticket was one left from a previous visit, so I hoped it would still be valid.

As the tram moved off, wheels squeeling against the metal tracks as it rounded the bend, I took stock of the passengers. Nobody looked especially cheerful despite the warm sunshine. People stood or sat and stared, perhaps using this ride as a welcome break, a time to do nothing except just sit and stare. A couple of pretty girls got on, their low slung pants showing the crease in their bottoms. I wondered if they were wearing panties underneath or if the denim fabric of their pants enjoyed embracing the curve of the flesh, the place of soft warmth.

The tram accelerated along the centre of the main street, past some well planted flower beds. The tall buildings still displayed the decorative grandeur of the old Austro-Hungarian empire.

Ahead the yellow ochre walls and grey domes of the Great Reformed Church dominated the pedestrian plaza, with its splashing fountains, benches and green-leaved trees. To the side the Civis Arabanyka Hotel surveyed the scene, its blue grey stucco facade deceptively opulent-looking. Below, a disabled man limped on his crutch, while at a cafe two dark-suited businessmen talked earnestly while fingering their cellphones and coffee cups.

We rumbled on past the tall school building and a busy crossroad before stopping 50 metres beyond my guesthouse. I struggled down with my luggage onto the pavement below and the doors rattled shut behind me. The yellow tram departed. I had arrived.

A woman by the lake

I was strolling along the road by Lake Victoria, watching the big Malibu storks gliding down and landing on the rocks, crusted white from their droppings.

On the pavement ahead a woman was spreading out a red cloth, wet from washing. She crouched beside the material, waiting for it to dry in the hot sun. Suddenly she cried out a torrent of words - addressed to noone in particular,

Her black dress hung loosely on her naked body. Her small breasts were visible, petite, well formed, dark pretty nipples. I surmised she had never suckled a baby.

Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she had been abused by the men who had been part of her life. Maybe she was a lost soul seeking to hold herself together as the sun came up and dried her washing and warmed her body. Maybe this was the only warmth she knew.

I wanted to take her in my arms, to feel her warm body against my own, to touch its muscular leanness, to taste its smooth clean flesh. Maybe she could satisfy my own stirrings. My mind raced in a fantasy of sweet clinging, kissing, opening, thrusting - an overflowing of feelings, a deep-felt relief, a draining of emotions.

It could not be. I walked on. I felt the heat of the sun, the stir of the morning breeze against my face.

A big stork on a massive round rock shook its wings, dropped its shit and launched across the lake.

Worlds apart

The road to Gorni Stubal from Probistip was rough.  The tarmac was pocked with holes and heavy rains had washed gravel across the surface.  It was mucky from the traffic of cows, goats, horses and humans.

Wild flowers brought some softening adornment to the banks of the road.  Blood red poppies fluttered and bobbed as the car disturbed the still air.  On the rolling green hillsides beyond yellow patches stood out where the hay had been cropped.  Neat haystacks stood in muddy farmyards near dotted redbrick or brown plastered farm buildings.

We passed a small settlement.  A group of men sitting on the verandah of the local store looked up from their drinks.  A passing stranger was a mater of curious interest.

Ahead we saw our man standing behind a rusty metal gate, awaiting us.  We parked and were welcomed to what proved to be his uncle's property - a rather ramshackle building standing in an area of scythed rough grass, trees, outbuildings and an old well.  It had never run dry, he told me.  When his great grandfather had come to this place, he had picked the spot with the instinct of a man of the soil.

We sat on some old metal chairs with makeshift foam cushions in the shade of a sycamore tree.  The two men talked of life in Gorni Stubal.  It was a safe place where there was no crime.  A few people walked the 15 kms every day to Probistip, where the zinc and lead mine offered work.

During the communist years of Tito, people were encouraged to leave the land and travel to places where factories provided the industrial base for socialist progress.

Change had transformed the world outside their sheltered houses and fields.  Those left in Gorni Stuba continud to co-exist with the rhythm of the natural world.  Theirs was the a heritage of sowing and reaping, of making do with basic requirements.  Within their world, people looked out for one another, respected each other's property, found time to talk about life's questions, welcomed strangers of goodwill with interest and hospitality.

As we drove carefully back along the lane, I slowed to give way to an old man coming towards me.  He was perched on top of a heavily laden and weary-looking horse.  The old man looked at me with his rheumy eyes, deep-set in an ancient, wrinkled face.  The donkey plodded past, heading for home.  I drove on, leaving their world behind.

Just a journey

The First Great Western train from Exeter to London Paddington station did not travel slowly. Between three en route stops it hurtled along at 123 mph through the rolling countryside of South West England. The patchwork of hedge-lined fields looked fresh and healthy under the pleasing pattern of clouds and blue above. Acres of corn looked ripe and golden, and in places combine harvesters were already at work. White sheep dotted green grass and black and white cows chewed the cud.

I was a littler anxious about the time it might take to get from Paddington station to Kings Cross to connect to the East Coast line. The Hammersmith and City line Underground train moved slowly between stations. But I was sitting next to a pretty, slim, black girl, with swept-back hair, bright eyes and pleasing lips. I watched her reflection in the window opposite our seats but somehow lacked the nerve to chat to her. How strange it is that we can be so close to people and yet so far away.

Exiting the train at Kings Cross, I had to hurry up the stairs and out into the fresh air briefy to make my way across to the mainline station. The splendid Gothic Victorian architecture of adjacent St Pancras station soared into the sky above. Soon, the 12:05 train to Peterborough was flagged up on the indicator boards and I was walking along the platform to board the train. For £10 I had secured an upgrade to First Class for this leg of the journey.

First Class is certainly a treat. The seats are wide and comfortable and there is free wi-fi, free drinks, free snacks... I was immediately offered tea or coffee and shortly after enjoyed an egg and cress sandwich. I took fruit juice rather than alcohol, needing to be alert for a long and difficult meeting ahead.

The East Coast line is electrified and the trains generally smarter than First Great Western trains. I guess we were hitting over 130 mph for some of the time, restricted by the track. Only the Eurostar trains to the Continent routinely travel at 185 mph on rails laid to cope with such speeds.

A journey for me is a good time to read. I had a copy of Margaret Drabble's novel, 'The Peppered Moth'. It was an fascinating story, following the fortunes of a family from a North of England mining town from the end of the First World War until the 60s. The narrative moved backwards and forwards in time, capturing the everyday of each decade with insight and verisimiltude.

A book is a bit like a journey. The imagination travels through the surroundings and the lives depicted by the writer; people and places come and go; we meet people without meeting them and see the world without connecting with it, both voyagers and voyeurs.