Poetry
The Shealtiel Family synagogue in Salonika, Greece was named Catalan Haddash or The New Catalan. It is better known, however, by its nickname, ¡Figo Loco!, the wild fig. This area is intended to be the Family forum for humor, hobbies, lifestyle, and creative material of all kinds. Contributions from family members will be posted here as well as in the Shealtiel Gazette.
- A poem by Piet Saltiel and his wife, reflects their feelings on family members lost
- Refuges - A poem by Maurice Saltiel
- A Jewish Christmas - A poem contributed by Fran London
- Young Gun - A poem by Helen Saltiel
Poem by Piet Sealtiel and his wife translated from Dutch by Vibeke Sealtiël Olsen
The memoirs of Piet Sealtiel were published in the S(he)altiel Magazine, VOL. 1, August 1994 (in Dutch), and in the Shealtiel Gazette, VOL. 2, 1995 (in English).
I can hear the silence speak
She cries and screams
filled by sorrow
I can hear the silence beg
full of fear and pain
Until she broke
I still could talk with the silence
I answer
But my voice is weak
I still would talk with the silence
But answer
I get not from one
I am now utterly alone
I shall say again and again
All those names that once were
That they will never,
No never be forgotten
I repeat them
Again and again
This poem reflects the theme of the Gazette's special issue on the Holocaust and Second World War. It is dedicated by its author, Maurice Saltiel of Villiers sur Marne, to his son Oliver.
Almuñecar, 10th December, 1980. To Oliver
Having found a new style
Would this make it easier,
To express the memories and thoughts
Continually running through my head?
Because our friends are often astonished,
That our travels lead us
To distant settings, perhaps our next refuge.
I answer here, before we are judged.
If we had been asked, we might have answered,
That in some periods of our life,
We passed through terrible ordeals,
Constantly struggling against adversity.
In a big sturdy house, many generations
Of close relatives lived in happiness
Under a hot sun, among friends, children, men & women,
Innocently working all day, not looking for that first disaster.
When I was six, I watched powerless
The greatest fire. At night the annihilation
Of our relatives' work and lives,
The flames rose in the sky lighting all the town.
We camped as best we could at the edge of town,
In search of a roof, of a refuge,
Near the open country, with our only luggage,
Courage, will and the hopes of all the family.
Then came migration, a long sea voyage,
To an unknown country, dreams of green woodlands,
Helpless with no means, but steadfast hopes
In search of a refuge for the family to trust in.
Hardly had these trials come to an end
That we might enjoy well deserved peace,
But we had to call up all our resilience
To face war, deportation, and captivity.
I came back alone from the east after a long absence,
Though I was not expected to return. I saw again
France razed, disordered, more hostile than before,
I prayed for the lost, sought out work. No time to dream.
Health and morale restored, faith would not suffice.
We had to bear ingratitude, insincerity,
Overcome hazards and hardships.
At last we started a home and family, found peace.
With their birth, that we had almost ceased to hope for,
Two jolly fellows arrived that day
And disrupted life for Mum and me,
And realised our long felt wishes.
Later, understanding that times had changed
"It is not like before" we repeated,
We observed the behaviour
Dictated by their youth.
Don't ever impose, but suggest, show the way,
This was ever our only law
In order that they may become independent
Lest they find themselves without help, relations, friends.
Having learned the lesson of our travels,
We advise them to keep their luggage to hand,
We are happy they have quickly learned,
It is better to learn fishing than get presents of cooked fish.
This poem was e-mailed to me by Fran London of Phoenix Arizona. I have included it because it so perfectly captures for me that most familiar of Jewish observances, the quest for Chinese food on high days and holidays. Fran concluded her mail to me "Of course, this is a fantasy. After all, what Jew doesn't know how to eat with chop sticks?" So true, so true! - Miles Saltiel
Twas the night before Christmas, and we, being Jews,
My girlfriend and me - we had nothing to do.
The Gentiles were home, hanging stockings with care,
Secure in their knowledge St. Nick would be there.
But for us, once the Chanukah candles burned down,
There was nothing but boredom all over town.
The malls and the theatres were all closed up tight;
There weren't any concerts to go to that night.
A dance would have saved us, some ballroom or swing,
But we searched through the papers; there wasn't a thing.
Outside the window sat two feet of snow;
With the windchill, they said, it was fifteen below.
And while all I could do was sit there and brood,
My girl saved the night and called out: "Chinese Food!"
So we ran to the closet, grabbed hats, mitts and boots -
To cover out heads, our hands and our foots.
We pulled on our jackets, all puffy with down,
And boarded the T bound for old Chinatown.
The train nearly empty, it rolled through the stops,
While visions of wontons danced through our kopfs.
We hopped off at Park Street; the Common was bright
With fresh-fallen snow and the trees strung with lights,
We crept through "The Zone" with its dossers and thugs,
And entrepreneurs selling ladies and drugs.
At last we reached Chinatown, rushed through the gate,
Past bakeries, markets, shops and cafes,
In search of a restaurant: "Which one? Let's decide!"
We chose "Hunan Chozer," and ventured inside.
Around us sat others, their platters piled high
With the finest of fine foods their money could buy:
There was duck and fried squid, (sweet, sour and spiced,)
Dried beef and mixed veggies, lo mein and fried rice,
Whole fish and moo shu and shrimp chow mee foon,
And General Gau's chicken and ma po tofu...
When at last we decided, and the waiter did call,
We said: "Skip the menu. We'll just take it all.
And when in due time the food was all made,
It came to the table in hoggish parade.
Before us sat dim sum, spare ribs and egg rolls,
And four different soups, in four great, huge bowls.
The courses kept coming from spicy to mild,
And higher and higher to the ceiling were piled.
And while this went on, we became aware
Every diner around us had started to stare.
Their jaws hanging open, they looked on unblinking;
Some dropped cups, some drooled without thinking.
So much piled up, one dish after another,
My girlfriend and I couldn't see one another!
Now we sat there, we two, sans proper utensils,
While they handed us things that looked like two pencils.
We poked and we jabbed till our fingers were sore
And half of our dinner wound up on the floor.
We tried - how we tried - but, sad truth to tell,
Ten long minutes later and still hungry as hell,
We swallowed our pride, feeling vaguely like dorks,
And called to our waiter to bring us two forks.
We fressed & we feasted, we slurped & we munched;
We noshed & we supped, we dinnered & lunched.
We ate till we couldn't and drank down our teas
And barely had room for our fortune cookies.
But my fortune was perfect; it summed up the mood
When it said: "Pork is kosher, when it's in Chinese food."
And my girlfriend - well, she got a real winner;
Her's said: "Your companion will pay for the dinner."
Our bellies were full and at last it was time
To travel back home and write up some bad rhyme
Of our Chinatown trek (and to privately speak
About trying to refine our chopstick technique).
The MSG spun round and round in our heads,
And we tripped and we laughed and gaily we said,
As we carried our leftovers home through the night:
"Good Yom Tov to all - and to all a Good Night!"
Fran London
Ray Saltiel of Llanelli, Wales, sent in this poem. He writes that he has ridden to hounds for the last thirty years and keeps two working Springer Spaniels. The poem was written by his wife, Helen.
Hush young gun, the old man's at rest
After a chase that proved one of his best
No need for regrets as we see him asleep
Excitement relived in reverie deep
Warm pleading eyes he could never refuse
A chin on his knees as he fastened his shoes
Young gun never still, raring to go,
Old man wearier; please go slow
Into the woods, young gun flushing,
With eyes lit up, tail wildly brushing,
Old man straining to show how the job's done
"I've wisdom aplenty to show a young gun."
Through the bracken and river - man, what a race!
Old man in the rear, young gun giving chase
Serious business, wonderful fun.
Two work as one, old man and young gun.
"Home boys, enough now". Old man's chest heaving.
Young gun following, dejected at leaving
The woods and the water; fur, fowl, and feather.
Young gun and old man returning together
Hush young gun, the old man's asleep
Peace on his face; but no need to weep
For the day's hectic moments, relived again
Wipe away signs of a long life's pain
Sleep well, old man, and dream on of today.
Morrow comes soon enough to show young gun the way.