Author of Yated's serialized, "South African Journeys -
- in Space and Spirit"
During this past year, I have been trying to collect together
short stories about Jews who grew up in the small `dorp'
communities of South Africa. The reason for this lies in my
childhood.
Long ago, more years ago than I care to note down, I lived in
a small place called Thaba N'chu. We lived across the road to
a small, low whitewashed shul that had been started by my
great-grandfather. The Sefer Torah and the Shas in the shul
had been given by him. A pogrom had forced him and his family
from a place called Tjeldag in Lithuania. He settled on a
farm called "Lowlands" and cultivated the land, and in the
evenings he immersed himself in Torah. I am named after his
wife, who helped run the farm, and whose much- thumbed copy
of Tzena uR'ena is now in my possession.
My grandmother was born on the farm. She learned Dutch and
English at school, spoke Yiddish at home, Afrikaans to the
people who lived in the area and an African language called
Sotho to the laborers on the farm. My grandfather came from
Tookum in Lithuania. He fled from conscription in the Tsar's
army when he was thirteen. My grandparents lived in Clocolan,
close to the border of Basutoland, close enough to feel the
icy winds that swept down from the snowy mountaintops of the
Drankensberg Mountains in winter.
The years of my childhood were ones of living in a small,
close, caring Jewish community. We maintained a shul
and kashrus and only much later did I realize how much
effort this had demanded of the adults.
This story of mine is not unusual. Every small town in the
land had some Jews. In each place, these Jews managed to
cling to their heritage. Some of these small communities have
disappeared, as Jews left for the large towns and cities;
some still survive. Rabbi Silberhaft visits them, publishes a
journal for them, and helps them maintain the mitzvos.
However, in time, even these communities will be no more,
remaining only in the memories of those who once lived
there.
I want to collect the memories of all these small
communities. I have found a potential publisher. However,
wherever I go, I meet people who sigh and say, "Oh, those
were wonderful times; such stories I could tell you!" Then,
when I ask them to write and send me their stories, they say,
"But I can't write..."
So now I am beginning a two-pronged attack. The first is that
another writer is prepared to interview people and write
their stories for them. The second gives the title to this
article. I want to tell how I learned to write, to show how
easy it is and how satisfying.
Writing is just story-telling. You have all told stories to
your children and grandchildren that begin with, "Once upon a
time..." So begin your story by deciding on a special event
that made a deep impression on you. Do you remember Pesach
preparations where the matza had to be ordered for the whole
community? Did the order always arrive on time? How did you
obtain kosher meat? Were you educated at the local school?
Where there any difficulties being the only Jew in the class?
What happened when someone was unexpectedly away from town
and there was a possibility of no minyan? How did you
celebrate: bar mitzvas, engagements and weddings? How were
shidduchim arranged? First think of all these events
and then choose one that is special.
Now imagine a friend sitting beside you. You want this story
to be of interest to this person. Write as if you are talking
and not in the style of a school essay. A school essay would
begin, "The history of the town involved the arrival of three
hundred people on the 18th of December, 1900." A story would
begin, "My grandmother told me that when she was a little
girl, they left their home quite suddenly one morning and
began to travel in a horse-cart until they reached a lonely
spot in the middle of the veldt."
Having chosen the topic, introduce it in one sentence:
"We were having visitors. My mother had obtained a kosher
chicken and this would be a treat after eating the same
pickled meat night after night."
The next thing is to slowly build up the story:
"The table was set with a starched white tablecloth. A bowl
of flowers stood in the center of the table. The cutlery was
gleaming. I left my games in the garden and peered into the
room to see the maid placing the roasted chicken in the
center of the table. It looked so plain. Then I remembered
the cake we had covered with fresh cream for my birthday
party that morning. Some cream had been left over. I would
use it to decorate the chicken."
This is the central core of the story. You can spin it out
just as you spin out stories that you tell your children, and
maybe even your grandchildren, by adding detail, by
stretching out the awful event that you know and they know is
about to happen when the mother discovers that her chicken in
ruined.
The kitchen can be described, the coal stove, the paraffin
fridge and the hurricane lamps that needed such special care.
These things are familiar to us country folk, but are
considered exotic by those who cannot imagine life without
electricity. The sound of the maids singing outside the
kitchen door, as they stirred the great black tripods of
"mealie pap" is part of our memories but strange and foreign
to others. The way we spoke to one another, in ways so
direct, because pretence was useless when we had no `wider
community' for other friendships. This, too, was unique and
lends interest to each story. Each community, each person,
had something special and it is in the main body of the story
that these touches can be added.
Then comes the ending. Now all the elements of the story must
be pulled together as quickly as possible. "My mother walked
into the room, saw the chicken, saw the bowl of cream next to
it, and saw me looking at it. Years later, I remembered these
events and asked her what she had done. `I served pickled
meat. What else could I do?'"
So please, everyone who lived in one of these communties, or
who visited family in these fascinating places, think hard,
think of something special and interesting, sit down and
write it out. Post it straight to me. Don't allow yourself to
read it again, or wonder if is is good enough. Just send it
to me. I am sure it will be just fantastic.
Address: c/o Woolf, Beilinson 4/10, Netanya 42443. E-
mail@zahav.net.il.
