Bij 4 mei
‘Channel Crossing to life’ in Hoek van Holland
Monument door Frank Meisler
Van die razzia’s zijn foto’s
Jonas Daniël Meijerplein
waar de Duitse militairen
joden aan het treiteren zijn
Een bange man met keurige schoenen
lange jas en vlinderdas
wordt over het plein gedreven
of het daar een veemarkt was
Kijk, daar staan drie Duitse soldaten
met een spottend lachje bij
en daar kijkt een vierde Duitser
misschien toch beschaamd, opzij
Stel je voor je zag die foto
van de man met vlinderdas
en je zou opeens ontdekken
dat het je eigen vader was
Soms moet ik er ook aan denken
hoe het die andere zoon vergaat
die ontdekte, kijk mijn vader
is die lachende soldaat
Willem Wilmink (25 oktober 1936 – 2 augustus 2003)
Doorgaan met het lezen van “Willem Wilmink, Amos Oz, Christiaan Weijts, Monika van Paemel”
De Engelse schrijver Graham Swift werd geboren op 4 mei 1949 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Graham Swift op dit blog.
Uit: Wish You Were Here
“There is no end to madness, Jack thinks, once it takes hold. Hadn’t those experts said it could take years before it flared up in human beings? So, it had flared up now in him and Ellie.
Sixty-five head of healthy-seeming cattle that finally succumbed to the rushed-through culling order, leaving a silence and emptiness as hollow as the morning Mum died, and the small angry wisp of a thought floating in it: Well, they’d better be right, those experts, it had better damn well flare up some day or this will have been a whole load of grief for nothing.
Healthy cattle. Sound of limb and udder and hoof—and mind. “Not one of them mad as far as I ever saw,” Dad had said, as if it was the start of one of his rare jokes and his face would crack into a smile to prove it. But his face had looked like simply cracking anyway and staying cracked, and the words he might have said, by way of a punchline, never left his lips, though Jack thinks now that he heard them. Or it was his own silent joke to himself. Or it’s the joke he’s only arrived at now; “We must be the mad ones.”
And if ever there was a time when Jack’s dad might have put his two arms round his two sons, that was it. His arms were certainly long enough, even for his sons’ big shoulders—both brothers out of the same large Luxton mould, though with all of eight years between them. Tom would have been fifteen then, but growing fast. And Jack, though it was a fact he sometimes wished to hide, even to reverse, already had a clear inch over his father.
The three of them had stood there, like the only life left, in the yard at Jebb Farm.
But Michael Luxton hadn’t put his arms round his two sons. He’d done what he’d begun to do, occasionally, only after his wife’s death. He’d looked hard at his feet, at the ground he was standing on, and spat.”
Graham Swift (Londen, 4 mei 1949)
Doorgaan met het lezen van “Graham Swift, David Guterson, Jan Mulder”