Showing posts with label G-2 Documents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label G-2 Documents. Show all posts

Saturday, 16 March 2019

D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv . . . the Problems of Englishing a Completist. Too anorakish?

It is well-known that, like Kipling, Tchékhov prided himself on his hyperdetailed understanding of the habits, customs and manners of the toilers from his own great sprawling multicultural empire. 
Filth! The place was one mass of it. Filth underfoot – filth on the walls, the rafters and the beams – filth floating on the hot, heavy pestiferous air.                                    (‘Zola,’ Tchékhov thought, ‘would revel in a minute description of this reeking den.’)                                    Anton placed his enamel tray on the workbench.   Old Vańuška cleared a space by removing an ancient fowling-piece, and a peculiarly shaped stump which Anton knew to be a leg-guard used by the cannoneers.  (When two shaft-horses drew a field-gun, one horse was ridden by a postilion who would have this clumsy-looking, very comical piece of wood fixed to his right leg.)
By comparison with a later text (see below), the Englishing of this modest display of military intelligence did not fox my father when first confronted with the ‘Chekhov manuscript’, labelled The Fatal Debut (understood to be a provisional title) in Anton’s own hand on the wax paper wrapper containing the putative Chekhov novel, bartered in 1946 by a prisoner of the Nürnberg Trials for ‘. . . half a carton of Chesterfields, two tins of cocoa and one can of condensed milk . . .’ (My father was an interpreter with SHAEF at the trials when he became acquainted with the possessor of the ms, General Vadim Ignatyvich Kulikov, who, following demands from the Soviets for his repatriation, was returned to Russia where after a show trial in Moscow he was executed for treason.)

Trainspotting credentials.


My father complained that Chekhov’s completism became more pronounced as the novel (he retitled the ms D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv: A Textbook Case) progressed towards its denouement and the measure of the challenges he faced may be grasped from his tackling of a particularly anorakish Chekhovian line, which warrants, I think, a more protracted textual exegesis . . .


 From D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv: A Textbook Case, conclusion of Part 1, The Unvarnished Truth . . .  
Soon, the double yolk of a yellow approach-signal shimmered in a glair of mist.
I do believe my father’s erudite translation has the distinction of conveying Chekhov’s meaning with the very lightest touch. The preceding sentence, sets the scene . . .
In the far distance, a railway engine laboured on a curve, and then the railway lights came into view over the brow of a hill, and a high column of grey smoke and sparks shifted fretfully hither and thither, trapped in the cutting between the forest trees.
The elegance of the ‘double yoke’ is matched, in this case, by D-r Tchékhov’s apposite usage of a practically untranslatable Cheremissian word for a particularly serpentine river mist, which is also a homograph for ‘egg white’. (My learned father wittily employs the Scottish Gaelic word, glair, which has a very similar double meaning.)

The Soviet Railroad Signals Manual (see diagram) certainly confirms D-r Tchékhov’s trainspotting credentials and, indeed, does not contradict his observations of a ‘ramassage train’ for the fortress general’s remounts approaching signals set for their diversion to the marshalling yard. (Diagram: Switchgear for points, inwards, with a graduated outward crossover plate to the running line.) 

 For the opinion of a Marxist footplatemen on the aridity of matters literary, see :
https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2011/10/solitary-truck-euphonious-assonance.html

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 A number of extracts from the as-yet-unpublished crime novel, D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv, have been posted here over recent years :

The transcription and restoration of a long lost crime novel by Chekhov (he, himself, referred to such a work in progress in 1888) has been a task requiring considerable cerebral vigour, which I confess demands a savviness I can no longer own.

The novel relates the misadventures of the morphine-dependent D-r Anton Tchékhov, aged 28 years, when investigating the mysterious duelling death of an aristocratic cadet in a remote snowbound northern garrison. 
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Friday, 7 March 2014

Rates of Exchange: ‘Ici. Français assassinés par les Boches.’

I have mentioned here and there, somewhat tangentially, the dilemma of my German-born father, accused by his sister in a fierce letter from Berlin (November 17, 1929) of becoming a stereotypical arch-Englishman (Stock-Engländer).
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/we-are-all-vermin-now.html 

 Inevitably, these emotional complexities were compounded by the outbreak of war in 1939, though by that date (September 3 1939) my father had been in the Territorials for more than a year. As I have also intimated, his rôle during the war in the Psychological Warfare Division of SHAEF (General Eisenhower’s Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force) was concerned with the military intelligence to be derived from the closest scrutiny of captured enemy documents, the specialism of the G-2 Documents Section . . . ephemera such as identification papers, Promotions Lists, Casualty Reports, Soldbücher (see below), Travel Orders, photos, notebooks, and captured enemy letters, generally seized unopened at a Feldpost.



The judicious release to the Allied press of enemy propaganda of the vilest sort was also part of his duties. I have, locked away in my plan-chest, a black museum of the most monstrous anti-Semitic propaganda imaginable, a collection my father amassed at G-2.

 I have mentioned also that my father was an interpreter at the Nuremberg Trials. No doubt the documents in the files I now possess relate to the trials of those war criminals. Certainly, my father retained signed orders from the most notorious of the accused, including Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring and Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel. Here are their signatures . . .


 Out of the blue,  late last year,  my sister dropped by with a number of additional documents relating to my father . . . in particular,  a most illuminating (albeit rather stilted) letter to his former peacetime employers in London written from Paris, exactly two months after the liberation of the city . . .

Speer & Hitler, Paris, June 1940 (Keitel, left, Bormann, right)
October 31st 1944
G-2 Division
SHAEF

. . . As you may have gathered from the envelope I am now overseas. Colossal strides have been made if one recalls some of the milestones of the war since that memorable day when we Territorials quite suddenly had to break off in the middle of what ever we happened to be doing and rush to man our respective posts as soldiers.

The Battle of Britain with which most of us are only too familiar; the exploits in Africa where the enemy despite crafty leadership was outwitted and in the end successfully routed; the heroic defence of Stalingrad and the gigantic offensives launched by Russia, with their implications for the subsequent course of the war and on Allied strategy; the first major assault on the European mainland in Italy resulting in the capitulation of the first Axis power; the overwhelming success of the long awaited invasion of the Continent on the heavily defended coast of France; the liberation of peoples from the yoke of oppression. Now, at last, the Allies have set foot on German soil. What a formidable record!

It would be imprudent to hazard a guess when it will all be over; however, judging by the stiffening of resistance, due, no doubt, both to coercion and the diabolical exploitation of every conceivable morale-bolstering device in the vain attempt to frustrate what must be a foregone conclusion, it may mean to a great extent razing down to the ground the domain of a sadly misguided people until the erstwhile mighty Nazi stronghold has been completely crumbled. While not forgetting the task in hand is far from completed one cannot escape the thought that all of this will have been accomplished not without a price which must never be forgotten by those who through Providence may be permitted to return. Upon them in particular will devolve the onerous responsibility effectively to contribute – by steering well clear of such extremes as political apathy and Chauvinism – to the shaping of a new world era from which the spectre of war will be banished for all times.

Nightmare scenes of destruction.  

It has been my privilege to see many of the historic places in Normandy where not so very long ago fierce battles raged, such as Bayeux, Caen, Carentan, Évreux, Isigny, Lisieux, etc, and to share to some extent in the rejoicing of a people who have once again regained their freedom. If one happens to venture along some French streets, it is touching to be surrounded by children who in their innocence seek to express gratitude for something of which they are only dimly conscious by eagerly seizing your hand and muttering ‘Merci’ or even ‘Thank You’. Not without a feeling of awe does one cross bridges still crudely labelled with names which have gone down into history. The ferocity of the contest is brought home to the onlooker by scenes of destruction and devastation unlikely to occur even in a nightmare. Yet amid these ruins courageous people still dwell and go about their daily business. To heighten the incongruity these places are gaily bedecked with flags, bunting and signs expressing thanks and a welcome to the liberators. While travelling along the open roads one may encounter numerous disabled or burnt-out tanks lined up alongside, and frequent concentrations of craters testify to the strafing of a convoy; moreover, many fragments of wrecked planes clearly showing Swastika markings may be discerned in the fields as one drives by, and now and again a new cemetery symmetrically laid out with countless uniform crosses.

Faded flowers and chips in the masonry.  

Last, but by no means least I, have been to that historic bone of contention named Versailles and to the mecca of the Americans: PARIS. From the fashion point of view, I am bound to remark that the female of the species still goes around extremely well dressed despite sartorial shortages of different kinds and I am confounded more often than not by the monstrous headgear which appears to be in vogue at the moment. When I think that only fairly recently I was still in my own home, especially on that day when General de Gaulle entered Paris, listening to the excited commentator describing the dramatic entry into Notre Dame, it is certainly thrilling to be able to write and say one has been there and, among other places, in the Place de la Concorde where signs of the barricades and chips in the masonry continue to tell their story. In fact, other visible evidence of the former Occupation has not yet been completely effaced either. Countless German inscriptions on buildings, signs and even on big posters may still be seen. A more tragic note was struck when in a lonely street on a fence I observed a piece of cardboard recording in crude handwriting that on a certain date some Frenchmen had been assassinated on that spot by the ‘Boches’. No more and no less, except for a bunch of faded flowers still wrapped in paper dangling from a piece of string surmounting the sign.

Flourishing black market.  

Apart from the congested travel on the ‘Metro’ and on a few isolated ’bus services, life in the great capital seems to be fairly normal so far as I can judge. The cafés and a good many places of entertainment appear to be in full swing. People are manifestly pleased with the change liberation has brought them, and many a harrowing tale has been related to me of sufferings and privations which had formerly to be contended with. Prices in the shops are exceedingly high compared with ours, especially at the present rate of exchange. It may perhaps be attributed to the flourishing state of black market activities and possibly still to the earlier rate of exchange fixed by the Germans, which I understand was approximately 16–24 francs to 1 Reichemark, thus enabling them to buy up as much as they cared  At the arbitrary rate of francs 10 = shilling 1/-, or £ = frs 200, Allied policy obviously wishes to discourage military personnel from making purchases in order not to deprive the indigenous population of their rightful commodities. In this connection I must relate an incident which I shall always remember.

Lost appetite.

On the occasion of a visit to Paris after a strenuous morning sightseeing the inner man asserted himself with particular vehemence. Not realising the prevailing conditions and carrying on my person the equivalent of approximately £2 I had no compunction in entering what seemed to be a restaurant of modern pretensions. I partook of a most enjoyable meal and just regretted the absence of potatoes with my main dish only to find that they were served afterwards as a separate course! A Frenchman sitting nearby who had consumed much along the same lines as I, had meanwhile finished and asked for the bill. He took out his wallet and to my ever-growing astonishment counted out a vast number of notes which I saw were of Francs 100 denomination. My appetite thereupon dwindled rapidly and I must confess to feelings of great trepidation when with a shaky voice I eventually mustered sufficient courage to demand l’addition. To my surprise the waitress summoned the proprietress who came to my table and harangued me in a pretty little speech to the effect that I was the first soldier of the Anglo-American forces to enter her restaurant and that in no circumstances would she accept payment from me. I was utterly dumbfounded for the moment and after muttering not too emphatic expressions of reluctance to accept her offer I managed to say that I respected her sentiments and would she in the circumstances do me the honour to accept a packet of cigarettes which I knew were at a premium in Paris. With faint protestations she too decided to acquiesce whereupon with a sensation of great relief I sallied forth into the street, leaving with great magnanimity a tip equivalent to 5 shillings in our currency representing but a tiny fraction of what my meal should have cost me! 

Stand-in Germans.  

[Real names suppressed.] It with a sense of deep gratitude at being able, if only in trifling measure, to reciprocate the firm’s tangible goodwill to the militant members of staff that I now come to report on my visit to the Paris branch office. I had hoped to be the first British representative of the firm to cross their threshold since the Occupation, but I learned that I had been forestalled by a Major ‘J’ whom I cannot place. The only ‘J’ I knew was taken prisoner at beginning of the war. The Major ‘J’ in question is supposed to be a very able linguist and though this applies also to the young man I knew, there is still a discrepancy of age as I understand Major ‘J’ is about 50. When I paid my first visit to the Rue Rodier I made the acquaintance of a Monsieur ‘M’, whom I assume to be the manager, and in the absence of both M. Rosenberg and Mr ‘H’, he was good enough to answer the various questions I raised in the course of quite a long conversation . . . During the occupation the firm was in the charge of two Germans in all, one at a time over different periods, who supervised the business. They were supposed to have been very capable, extremely correct in their dealings, and drew only a nominal salary of frs 2,000 per month. 

Anti-Semitic measures enforced. 

Naturally, I enquired after M. Rosenberg and I was told that he had been in during the morning and was not expected to return that day. It was not possible to reach him on the ’phone as this was still cut off as a result of the anti-Semitic measures enforced during the Occupation. Mr ‘H’, I was given to understand, had been interned in Vittel [concentration camp in the Vosges department,  where US or British citizens were interned] and had only returned the night before. Monsieur ‘M’ managed to get through to him on the ’phone eventually and I was invited to call on him at his home. There I also met Mrs ‘H’ and we all had tea together. I must say that for his age he look remarkably well and fit and really showed no signs on the ordeal he had just been through. As I happened to be among the first to see him, even before he had been able to see M. Rosenberg, there was nothing much he could say beyond express his intention to look up his contacts.  

A true Frenchman. 

Meanwhile, it has been my good fortune to pay another visit to Paris and this time I managed to see both M. Rosenberg and Mr ‘H’. M. Rosenberg was very charming indeed and I was profoundly moved by his dignified composure when I consider the infinite mental anguish and physical suffering it has been his lot to endure. Though I gather from Monsieur ‘M’ that he has aged considerably, his bearing was agile and his speech lacks none of the sparkle and animation associated with a true Frenchman. He expressed his satisfaction so far as business matters were concerned and regarded it as a major miracle to be able to report that the firm had lost no money despite having been under German control for so many years.
[END of my father’s Letter extracts.]


A booby-trapped piano. 

The routed enemy knew about human weakness, my father told me, particularly how liberating troops would eagerly go after for souvenirs. It was these items that the retreating Germans booby-trapped in France . . . he said you should never pick up helmets, rifles, thermos flasks or cameras left behind in enemy billets, because these could trigger trip-wires connected to igniting devices intended to dynamite souvenir hunters to shreds.  

Resist the fatal impulse to pry, he was warned. Igniting devices could be left in the piano, the closet, the stove, the icebox, behind pictures, beneath dishes and flower bowls or even in a chamber pot underneath the bed . . . or . . .
  
Mid Sussex Times, August 9 1944.

As I have recorded elsewhere, my father was a gifted pianist who studied in Vienna and the Institute of Musical Art, New York. We can imagine, then – in that Paris autumn of 1944 – how his strong desire to run his fingers once again over the keyboard of a splendid grand piano, the centrepiece of a fashionable salon lately abandoned by German officers, was almost his undoing,  . . . had he pressed one piano-key, he told me, he could have tripped the enemy’s surprise package and blown his outfit into kingdom come.

In my writings, my sketches of my father as a pianist are rare, but here, below, is a quotation that describes his postwar manner, which was undoubtedly conditioned by his struggle to resolve the crisis of a divided identity, which would in the late 1940s lead to a troubled crack-up. At that time, specialists had concluded that the confusion associated with my father’s disrupted identity was the result of psychological stresses underlying his bilingualism. That there was a higher incidence of mental disturbances among polyglots, the shrinks claimed, was evidence of the trauma of assimilation.
In my opinion it is actually more difficult to run into bar 210 of Valse in A-flat Opus 42 where the waltz ‘stumbles’ than emerge from it – one runs the risk of sounding as if one has simply walked into a wall, rather than suspending the breath for a moment – hence, this artifice of ineptitude is not easy to achieve and, even though Chopin intended to simulate a clumsy dancer’s imbalance before her lost rhythm is regained, the player’s assumed clumsiness must be diligently practiced over and over again.
     So, creating this suspension requires exceptional finesse in timing and shades of dynamics and balance, which, to my way of thinking, is the more difficult task.
     In my father’s case, alas, the task was performed never with consummate success, as though the passage was a nagging regret and he had to return again and again to pick a sore.  (Father would tune his piano himself by feeding a reference note into an oscilloscope an army pal of his had once used for reading radar; he’d then retune the fifths until they were slightly flat. Those dancing waveforms on a monitor screen, as I told the doctors, I always associate with Chopin’s waltzes.) 
This extract is from the episode, Dispossession, in my Sister Morphine (Salt 2008) . . .
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/sister-morphine.html 

For a tragedy of true alienation, see also my The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K at the South Bank Poetry Library. . .
http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=9440
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