Hassan’s Dilemma

this challenge involved writing a piece of fiction (below 1000 words) for which the setting was a waiting area. 

There was still ten minutes before the ferry was due. Hassan couldn’t wait that long – he was going to have to say something.

He travelled the short distance to the Scottish mainland every Monday morning for a business meeting and to bring back the weekly groceries. This morning there was just one other car in the queue. It was an old BMW 320 with wide wheels, twin sports exhaust, rear spoiler and blackened windows. This was the cause of Hassan’s concern.

The driver of this ‘beast’ had committed three offences. Firstly, he was playing very loud hip-hop music with the front windows wound down and the bass turned to maximum - creating a most unpleasant, distorted booming beat that could be heard from half a mile away. The intention of course was to let everyone know what a powerful sound system he possessed whilst enjoying the annoyance that it caused.

The second crime took place when a crushed B&H King-size packet was tossed out of the window. The nearby Red Bull can had almost certainly been ejected from the same source.

Finally, the driver had left his engine running – doubtless to let the throaty exhaust advertise the power of the vehicle. This was a pointless strategy with the stereo on full power. Hassan hated to think about the diesel fumes that were unnecessarily polluting the island’s air. How unfair that this imbecile’s anti-social behaviour should cause him so much anxiety. How was he going to deal with this?

He felt his palms sweating. Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He took a deep breath, gathered his composure, and strode purposefully towards the BMW.

The driver was in his mid-twenties. He had the bulging upper torso of someone who spends a lot of time at the gym. He was wearing an unbuttoned short sleeve shirt which offered a view of the variety of tattoos covering his chest and arms. He had closely cropped hair (Grade 1 Hassan surmised) and was very tanned (excessive sunbed use?).

The passenger was a similarly tanned younger girl. She was attractive with long straight hair, a small glinting stud through her nose, and large silver framed sunglasses perched on top of her head. The driver didn’t turn to look as Hassan approached – knowing what was coming and wanting to make him feel insignificant. The girl watched with amusement and said something to her friend.

‘Excuse me’, Hassan said in as loud a voice as he could muster. The driver took a long drag of his cigarette and slowly turned to look at him, exhaling smoke into his face.

‘Could you turn the music down please?’ he shouted.

The driver smiled. He turned down the volume which was a relief, but Hassan felt that it probably wasn’t going to be that simple.

‘I don’t think Mohammad here likes the music’, the driver said to his friend. The girl grinned. ‘Well, tell him to ......’. Hassan didn’t hear exactly what, because at that moment the music was turned back up again. He knew that the best thing would be to walk away, but surprised himself with what happened next. He bent down and picked up the crushed cigarette packet. ‘You dropped this’ he said loudly, pushing it back through the car window.

The driver, initially astonished that Hassan was foolhardy enough to challenge him, became enraged. This was a man with anger management issues. He punched the power off button on the stereo and let loose a torrent of vile, racist abuse.

Hassan was in it too far now to retreat, so, although inwardly shaking with fear, he kept as visibly calm as he could and made his final observation.

‘Do you realise that your diesel fumes are polluting the air? Why can’t you show more consideration for the environment and turn off your engine when you don’t need it?’ The driver turned to his friend who up until now had been enjoying the confrontation.

‘I’ll show Mohammad how considerate I am’, he said. The girl, realising that things could quickly get out of control, began to feel worried. Something glinted in the driver’s hand.

‘NO, don’t use it Steve’ she pleaded as her friend sprang out of the car. In an instant he had his arm around his provocateur’s neck, pulling him forward. Hassan’s glasses fell to the floor. Then, quickly and without any hesitation, he plunged the blade deep into Hassan’s chest. The fear on his face turned to shock. Hassan slowly sank to his knees.

‘CUT’, shouted the director. ‘Sorry guys – a seagull flew right in front of the camera. Can you all get back to your original positions and we’ll go again from Sonja’s ‘Don’t use it Steve’.

July 2018

TREVOR

This was another writing group challenge. Produce a piece of flash fiction around the royal wedding (Harry and Meghan) which gripped the nation (but not me). Trevor was a traveller who I met in Nantwich last year. A gentle man, not a beggar. He told me his story and I bought him a coffee (2 sugars please). Although widely travelled, Trevor's visit to Windsor was entirely fictional.

Trevor had slept well under the railway arches. The frosts of early May had given way to more clement night-time temperatures. His ex-army sleeping bag, lined with last week’s Evening Standard, (superior insulation quality to the free Metro) had staved off the night chill.

It was 8am on Saturday and Slough was far busier than he could remember from his previous stopovers. Of course he knew why – the very reason that had brought him back down south.

Two miles away in Windsor Castle the sixth-in-line to the throne was nervously contemplating a day in which two billion people would watch his every move during a uniquely British piece of theatre.

Trevor was fascinated by royalty. His mother had been a staunch monarchist. He still remembered the Coronation mugs that she had collected. Seven years ago he had jostled with the huge crowds in The Mall, waiting to see William and Kate drive past. Somehow, even the briefest glimpse made the spectator a part of the event – a witness to history being made. 

His mother had died too young, with the subsequent breakup of the family sending Trevor into army service, where the horrors he witnessed in Northern Ireland resulted in his discharge on mental health grounds. A life on the road followed soon after.

Back in the castle, Harry was donning the frock-coat military uniform of the Blues and Royals. A couple of attendants made sure that everything was immaculate.

Trevor didn’t need any time to dress. He had slept in his ‘uniform’. He packed the sleeping bag into his huge rucksack (containing his worldly possessions) and entrusted it to the care of the Salvation Army manager. He’d be back for it in the morning. The facilities in Slough had allowed him to shower on Thursday and had fed him on Thursday and Friday. He filled a bottle with water and was given a sandwich and an apple for his journey. Windsor was just a couple of miles away.

At Eton he crossed the Thames. Halfway across the bridge he stopped at a bench which offered a view of Windsor Castle. The crowds were building fast. He moved on. Having crossed the Thames, the highly visible presence of armed police and special services made him glad that he’d left the rucksack behind. It would have caused alarm for the police and difficulty for him. 

Passing the castle took an hour – the crowds were far larger than he expected. He made slow progress down High Street and into Kings Road. Thousands of people lined the route that Harry and Meghan would take in their open top Landau carriage, before returning to Windsor Castle along The Long Walk.

‘You look amazing’, said Harry to Meghan (according to the professional lipreaders) as she joined him in St George’s Chapel.

Giant TV screens allowed the crowds to follow events in the Chapel. Trevor inched forward, getting as close to the barriers as he could. After what seemed like an age (he wasn’t comfortable in large crowds) the newlyweds were on their way. Most people were waving Union Jacks and taking photos with their Smartphones. The cheering was deafening – he stood on tiptoes and finally, there they were! It seemed that Meghan looked directly at him – such a happy face! 

It’s an odd thing. All that effort from a gentle homeless man. A society reject. The bottom of the heap. Why would he feel anything but contempt for the fabulously wealthy? Yet, there was no anger. He actually felt a glow in his heart and he realised that he’d done this for his mother. He made his slow way back to Slough. No sleeping bag tonight but he had hidden a woollen blanket under the arches. Today had been a good day – tomorrow Trevor was heading north.  

14 June 2018

Flash Fiction (500)

This is another piece of 'flash fiction' (see previous post). The task (set in my local writers group) was to write a complete story in 500 words or less. There had to be reference to 'money'.
 

MONEY 

My favourite Floyd album was playing as I found an empty table. I was singing along in my head – Money, so they say, is the root of all evil today ...

“Mind if I join you?”

A plump middle-aged man wearing a thick weatherproof jacket, scarf and woollen hat sat down without waiting for a reply. He removed his hat, surprising me with the difference it made to his appearance. He had round features and was completely bald. I amused myself with the thought that my new companion had the sort of face that might look just the same upside-down.

“I’m Tom” he announced as we waited for our coffees to arrive. He had found somebody to talk to and, with a feeling of dismay, I realised that there would be no easy escape.

“I’m a photographer – well just an amateur.” I nodded and smiled at what I thought were appropriate moments as Tom outlined the rationale behind his latest photo blog, ‘Flat Broke’- a documentary of the last three years of his life in a single-bedroom flat.

 “One latte and one Americano” interrupted the waitress.

Tom was in full flow but I wasn’t really listening. My gaze had fallen on the next table. A pretty, young girl, probably a student, was writing something inside the cover of a paperback book.

 “I’ve covered everything. There are about 120 photos, including inside the fridge and under the sink.”

The girl paused. She nibbled on her stick biro as she gathered her thoughts. The glitter in her white nail varnish twinkled as her hand caught the light.

“I converted them all to black and white to give them documentary integrity.”

After a few seconds contemplation she continued to write, and then, moments later, closed the book - she was finished.

“I’m hoping to exhibit a selection of images from ‘Flat Broke’ in the photo society end of year show.”

The girl stood up, gathered her bag and keys and walked out into the cold November morning.  Then I noticed she had left her book behind.

“She’s left something – back in a min” I said to Tom. In my haste I jolted the table. Tom’s coffee spilled into his saucer.

“Shit - sorry”.  I didn’t have time for lengthy apology as I scooped up the paperback and hurried to the door.  Too late! She’d disappeared.

I looked at the book – ‘The Age of Innocence’  by Edith Wharton. There was a Postit note inside the front cover (that’s what she had been writing!)

To whoever finds this - it’s my favourite book. I hope  you will love it too. Let me know if you do. Then release it for someone else to enjoy. C x  (justlovingbooks@gmail.com)

I sat down and finished my coffee. “She left it on purpose", I explained to Tom, pulling on my coat.

Pink Floyd were losing the struggle to be heard above the snorting, hissing coffee machine – and I was off to find somewhere quieter. I had some reading to do.

Flash Fiction (150)

This is a piece of 'flash fiction'. The task (set in my local writers group) was to write a complete story in around 150 words. There had to be reference to the workhouse.

SWILL 

Samuel Wilkins was a brute - a vile bully. The children called him Swill – the very name conveying a sense of evil.

Only the workhouse head was permitted to administer corporal punishment, but Swill was never challenged. Even the staff found him intimidating. A lesson rarely passed when a boy wasn’t thrashed.

‘Unbutton’, commanded Wilkins. The trembling victim was bent over a desk and given several heavy blows with a birch rod. Usually, by the third blow, a crimson line of blood appeared across the boy’s buttocks.

One afternoon, Wilkins singled out an older boy for punishment.
‘Unbutton’.

‘No Sir’, the boy defiantly replied.

Incandescent with rage, the teacher grabbed his victim and forced him over a desk. Before he could raise his weapon a group of the bigger boys leapt onto Wilkins. Using his own stick, they beat him until his animal roars turned to deep moans and eventually a pathetic whimpering.

The boys returned to their desks. They watched whilst the broken, humiliated man slowly raised himself, stumbling out of the room - and their lives.

The Young Rebecca

This short story is based on actual events. The characters are fictitious. It was produced for an anthology of student work from a creative writing workshop called 'Write Time Write Place' (Nov/Dec 2017).The 8 week course was funded by the Arts Council and hosted by Cheshire West and Chester Council in Northwich Library. The anthology is due to be published in March. Thanks to Charlie Lea for his tuition, encouragement and humour.

The Young Rebecca

2016 – The Atwell Gallery, Edinburgh
It was April 8th, an important anniversary for Clara. The old lady knew exactly where to go. Declining to take the lift, she carefully negotiated the main staircase. Turning right at the 1st Floor landing she made the familiar, short journey to Gallery 3 – Twentieth Century European Art.

Apart from the invigilator sitting near the door, no one else was in Gallery 3. The young girl in the painting looked straight into Clara’s eyes. This connection always produced the same emotion. Once again the tears flowed silently. ‘Mutti,’ she said softly to herself. Through blurred vision, she carefully sat down on the bench seat and composed herself.

‘Are you all right love?’ asked the worried attendant.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll be fine in a minute,’ Clara replied, feeling embarrassed at having revealed her emotions. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

‘Is there something in here that’s upsetting you?’

‘Well, I do get emotional when I look at the Wintersteller,’ replied Clara, slowly recovering her composure. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance, it’s just that it means such a lot to me.’

‘You’re not a nuisance love. It’s a wonderful painting. Why is it so special to you?’

As Clara replied, the tears returned, ‘It’s a painting of my mother!’



1922 / 32 - Josef Wintersteller’s studio, Vienna
The artist had worked with many models over the years, but Rebecca became his favourite. Her widowed mother, Ellen Frankl, supplemented her meagre income from seamstress work by cleaning old Josef’s house at weekends. Rebecca couldn’t be left at home, so she accompanied her mother, and helped to sweep up and dust, or played with Spritzen, the old man’s overweight cat.

It wasn’t long before Josef began to sketch the young Rebecca. After her 14th birthday he paid her mother a little extra to allow the girl to pose whilst he made a study for a painting. Thus began a 2 year period during which he made several studies of his latest muse.

Ellen was delighted that her daughter was the artist’s choice – it seemed a compliment to her parenting to have produced such a lovely girl, and the extra money was very welcome! Rebecca, who was also rewarded with a little pocket money for each session, enjoyed listening to Josef’s stories and was very happy to sit for him whilst her mother carried out her more arduous chores.

Josef was captivated by the girl’s confident and unabashed manner – unusual for one so young. He managed to capture her character and beauty in the finished paintings but the most striking achievement was the way he caught her defiant gaze. The ‘Young Rebeccas’  are generally regarded as Wintersteller’s finest work. Somehow the aging artist had combined the innocence of a Gauguin Polynesian with the challenging insouciance of Klimt’s ‘Mäda Primavesi’.

Rebecca Frankl continued to visit Josef until her mother became ill in 1928 and could no longer work. The following year she married Hans, the proprietor of a second hand furniture shop, and became Rebecca Bergmann. Their daughter Klara was born in 1932



1935-40, Vienna
The work of a Jewish artist in Austria or Germany was always in danger of being seized and destroyed by the Nazis in the late 1930s. That the paintings should also feature a Jewish subject provided all the more excuse for them to be classified as degenerate.  Of the ‘Young Rebeccas’, only 3 are believed to have survived the war. One belongs to the Leopold Museum in Vienna. One is in the Art Institute of Chicago, and the other is in Edinburgh’s Atwell Gallery. These paintings were amongst the works that Josef managed to take to Switzerland when he fled from Nazi persecution in 1938.

For a few years prior to the German annexation of Austria in March 1938 (the Anschluss) there was an alarming rise in anti-Semitism. One afternoon in 1936, Nazi thugs broke into Hans’ shop. They smashed the windows and the furniture. Hans didn’t come home that night. The following day, a distraught Rebecca was asked to identify a body that had been recovered from the Danube. It was her husband. At 28 she was a widow with a 4-year-old daughter. The police had no appetite, resources or inclination to investigate the crime.

The next 2 years were incredibly hard on the young widow. Klara was now of school age but in 1938 Jewish children were excluded from state facilities and she had to attend a special school for non-Aryans. Rebecca asked Wintersteller if he needed either a domestic or a model. Although old Josef already employed a housemaid, he was delighted to work with his favourite muse again after a break of 10 years.

Unfortunately, none of his ‘adult Rebeccas’ survived the Nazi looting and burning. A number of sketches were saved when he escaped to Switzerland however. He suggested that she and Klara leave Austria too, and offered her a job looking after him. Sadly, Rebecca's visa application was refused.

By November, 1938, life as a Jew in Vienna was intolerable. Increasing numbers were being arrested in dawn raids and transported to concentration camps. The UK had agreed to a humanitarian project which evacuated almost 10 thousand child refugees (mostly Jewish) into British foster homes. The initiative was known as the ‘Kindertransport’. Schools and orphanages in Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland hastily drew up lists of potential evacuees.

Poor Rebecca was torn. Klara’s safety was her main concern, yet she couldn’t bear to be parted from her only child. She agonised for a day before asking the school to put her 6-year-old on the list. Not to have given her daughter this chance would have been foolish – she knew that Klara’s only realistic hope of safety was for her to leave Austria. Once she was in Great Britain maybe a visa would be granted for Rebecca to join her daughter.

‘How would you like to go to England where there will be kind people to look after you and none of Hitler’s police to frighten you?’

‘Yes please’ said Klara without pausing to consider any of the ramifications. ‘Can we really go? When?’

‘Well, it will only be the children first. Later on I hope that I can come and join you too.’

‘No, you must come too Mummy,’ Klara suddenly looked fearful and her mother held her tightly so that her tears wouldn’t give away her absolute distress.



1939 – The Long Journey
At 5:15 am on April 8th, 1939 Klara was woken by her mother.

‘Wake up sweetheart – we have to leave for the station in half an hour.’

Rebecca hadn’t been to bed that night. She spent the time packing her daughter’s small suitcase, sewing her clothes (with her initials embroidered onto all items), watching her sleep, and sobbing in total despair.

It was Saturday. From pure vindictiveness, the Nazis arranged many of the Kindertransport evacuations to take place on the Jewish Sabbath, the day of rest. The children were all required to be at Vienna’s Westbahnhof station by 6:30 am, an hour before departure. The youth leaders and teachers who had been nominated to travel as chaperones (on condition that they returned immediately) checked off their children against the passenger lists. Each child was issued with a numbered cardboard label to be worn around the neck. Klara was number 124.

That morning two hundred frightened and bewildered children said tearful goodbyes to their distraught parents. They boarded the train, clutching their small suitcases, and were shut into their allocated compartments. Klara, at 6-years-old, was one of the smallest, but the 8-year-old Hannah Klein, a friend from the same Jewish school, had been placed in her compartment. Hannah made it her business to look after her friend.

The children all waved at the window – even though they probably couldn’t pick out their parents in the throng. Rebecca tried not to think the worst, but all of the parents who bravely waved goodbye to their children that day knew that there was a strong likelihood of never seeing them again.

The children were not allowed to take jewellery or valuables of any kind. Rebecca had sewn a small silver locket containing miniature photographic portraits of herself and Hans into the belt of Klara’s coat. She also slipped into her drawing book, a sketch of herself that Wintersteller had given her before he fled to Switzerland a few months earlier. Most of the younger children clutched dolls or teddies. Oskar travelled with Klara. She would never have left without her little blue bear – she loved him quite as much as her mother once did.

The journey across three countries took 14 hours. When they reached the last station before the Dutch border, German guards boarded the train and alarmed the children by bursting into each compartment to search the luggage. No unauthorised belongings were found in Klara’s suitcase. The locket sewn inside her coat belt remained undiscovered - even Klara didn’t know it was there. 

Shortly after crossing into Holland the train stopped again. This time there was a very warm reception from the Dutch guards and the generous folk who greeted the youngsters.  Every passenger was given a drink of hot cocoa, a bag of sandwiches, a chocolate bar and an orange. For the hungry and bewildered children this was a wonderful welcome to their new life away from the Nazi dystopia.

Having eaten her sandwiches, Klara, still clutching Oskar, fell asleep cuddled up against her friend Hannah. They were on the last leg of their journey to the Hook of Holland. Klara was now wearing the silver locket. At Rebecca’s request, the chaperone on the Kindertransport train had unpicked it from its hiding place inside the youngster’s coat belt once they had crossed into Holland.

‘Get all of your luggage ready children, and make sure you are wearing your ID labels.’ The young teacher made a quick check of the compartments for which she was responsible. ‘We will be boarding the boat for England very shortly.’

The long North Sea crossing should have been exciting, but the sea was rough and many of the unfortunate children were seasick. Klara was lucky. Totally exhausted from the ordeal of the interminable rail journey, she fell asleep on the bunk that she shared with Hannah.

‘Wake up Klara, we are in England.’

Hannah was as white faced as the other two children in the cabin, but all were now excited by the loud clankings, engine noises and vibrations that signalled their arrival in Harwich. Here, they were checked against the register. Those who hadn’t yet been allocated foster homes went by bus to the nearby Dovercourt Camp. The others were all London bound. The train from Harwich carried its precious cargo to Liverpool Street station where the foster parents were waiting to collect their new family members.

‘Hello Klara, I’m Penny,’ said a small, middle-aged lady, with kind eyes and ginger hair escaping from beneath a grey hat. ‘You can call me Auntie Penny. This is Uncle Colin. We live near the sea in Wales.’

Klara, who had been taught some basic English at school, didn’t understand much, but Penny and Colin Williams seemed very kind and friendly. Hannah’s fosterers were in a rush to catch their Brighton train, but the two friends were allowed to have a final hug before they went their separate ways – faces blotched with tears. Klara sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes.



1942 – Vienna / Czechoslovakia / Poland
Rebecca Bergmann continued to live in Vienna, having no prospect of obtaining a visa to join her daughter in England. By 1942, unable to afford the rent, Rebecca moved in with her cousin Gisela, two miles south of the city. This was a slightly safer location but she knew that the police could come at any time.

The fateful day came on 15th September, 1942. Rebecca and Gisela were arrested in the evening and given ten minutes to pack a case. They were told that they were being taken to a relocation centre in Czechoslovakia. They endured appalling conditions during the long rail journey in cattle trucks but they were permitted to send one briefly worded postcard upon arrival.

‘Gisela and I are safe in a relocation centre in Czechoslovakia. We have food to eat and are treated well. Remember I love you always and hope to join you when the war is over. Mutti’
 
This card was sent to Klara from Theresienstadt camp. It was the last card that she received from her mother. Two weeks later Rebecca and Gisela were amongst the prisoners who were transferred to Poland. They probably knew their fate when they saw the station name after another dreadful journey in hugely overcrowded trucks. Treblinka!

Apart from a few strong men who were selected for unspeakably grisly work, all of the new arrivals perished within the hour. It is unlikely that many of them really believed that they were being taken to the showers.



1939 / 88 - England
When Klara enrolled at her junior school she was advised to change the spelling of her name to the Anglicized Clara. She also took her foster surname, Williams, which helped to avoid anti-German feeling both during and after the war.

The postcards from her mother had stopped coming after September, 1942.  Clara still hoped that she would hear good news, right up until that terrible day in 1945 when the Red Cross reported that Rebecca and Gisela had not survived their transfer to Treblinka. The postcards, the locket with her parents’ photos, the Wintersteller sketch and the faithful Oskar were the only reminders that she possessed of her heroic Mutti and Vati.

As the years passed, Clara bonded very strongly with the kindly Williamses. They in turn loved her as much as if she’d been their own daughter. They were there to comfort her when, aged 13, she learned that she had lost her mother. They encouraged the interest that she had developed in art and helped her gain a place in the local college. There was never any question of her leaving their home, until she met Simon Wallace, a young theatre set designer. They courted for two years whilst she was working for the Arts & Culture team of her county council.

After Simon was offered a post with the New Empire Theatre in Scunthorpe, the young couple moved to the east coast where they married. Their daughter, born in 1959, was named Rebecca in honour of the wonderful mother who Clara remembered every day of her life. The young Rebecca took her turn in looking after Oskar, the faded blue teddy bear. He’d been treated well through the years, and a few sewing repairs kept him in good shape. When granddaughter Ellen arrived in 1988, she took over the responsibility of giving the faithful Oskar her continuing and unconditional love.



2016 – The Atwell Gallery, Edinburgh
‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ the worried attendant asked Clara.

‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m quite alright - just being a bit silly. My granddaughter and her children are on the way up.’

Shortly there was a commotion at the entrance to Gallery 3 and a young woman with her two children rushed in. Ellen sat next to her grandmother and put a comforting arm around her.

‘Sorry Gran, Tomas and Anna both needed the loo.’

Clara motioned the 4-year-old twins to come and sit with her.

‘That’s a painting of my mother,’ she explained to them, pointing at Wintersteller’s ‘Rebecca’. ‘Can you see what she’s holding?’

In the young girl’s hand, casually dangling by her side, was a familiar figure.

‘OSKAR!’ they both exclaimed.

(c) Alan Carr, December 2017