Eva Hnizdo's Blog, page 2

First chapter of my novel “Why Didn’t They Leave?”

Magda Prague 1940

THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER — MAGDA CAN’T GO TO SCHOOL ANYMORE

A taster

 This is the worst day ever, Magda Stein sobbed as she walked home. She walked past the renaissance palaces of Mala Strana,

and across the bridge over the River Vltava. Normally she would look at the beautiful view of the Prague castle from the bridge. Today, she didn’t notice where she was going. It started raining, and the raindrops were mixing with Magda’s tears. People were looking at her, but 12-year-old girls cry easily, those strangers on the street probably thought she had an argument with her friends or lost something. This was much worse. Today, Magda had been told she couldn’t go to school anymore.

The teacher asked all Jewish children to go to the school gym after lessons. The headmaster was waiting for them. He was pacing up and down on the small, elevated platform that was sometimes used for children’s concerts and theatre performances, his shoes made a squeaky sound. He was pale and talked very quietly.

“We have been told that we are no longer allowed to have Jewish pupils. I am very sorry.”

His eyes were looking on his feet. Magda did that when she was lying. What will we do? she thought.

Magda loved going to school. She always had good marks, and she liked to hold her hand up first when the teachers asked

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questions. Sometimes, she didn’t know the answer when she put the hand up, but by the time the teacher called her up, she was ready to say something, and she was often right. It didn’t always work. The week before, she didn’t know the answer.

“So, what is it, Magda?” the teacher asked. “Oh, I forgot! Sorry.”

Everybody laughed at her. Usually, Magda was part of the popular group of girls who laughed at the ones they singled out as weird. Girls like bespectacled Ela, who wore ugly shabby clothes and read books in the interval instead of playing or talking with the other girls. Sometimes Ela was so engrossed in her book that she didn’t notice the school bell marking the beginning of the next lesson.

“Four-eyed Ela, wake up, the teacher’s coming!”

Ela dropped the book, rushing to her desk. Or the fat shy Jana, always eating something her mother baked in their bakery shop. The girls called her Stuffed Face. But when the girls laughed at Magda last week, she didn’t like it.

Now, she couldn’t go to school anymore. My brother Oskar doesn’t like school; he’ll be happy. The only thing he likes is football. Magda thought.

In the physical exercise lessons, Magda couldn’t do the things other children could, jump over the vault, climb the pole or the rope. She always got the giggles and got stuck in the middle of the climbing rope.

“Come on, Stein, climb up or down.”

The teacher hated it, but she had to help Magda to climb down. PE was the only subject where Magda never got the top mark. Who cares? Magda’s brother Oskar was in his school football team, and he ran, too. He kept teasing Magda that she was fat and clumsy. Well, he is stupid. I am far cleverer than he is. Even Daddy says that. It’s better to be clever and clumsy than stupid and good at moving, like a monkey. The image of her brother turning into a monkey made Magda stop crying.

Magda’s father Bruno told her she was his little princess. When he was at home, Magda often sat on his lap and he told her stories.

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Daddy loves me. Magda was not so sure about her mother. Of course, Mummy loves me, too, but she prefers Oskar. Mummy can be nasty to me sometimes. Last week, Magda ate half of the chocolate cake their cook Anna was preparing for dinner. There was plenty of it left for everybody, but Anna got angry. Magda’s mother Franzi got very cross, too — she sent Magda to her room without any supper. The punishment didn’t last long. Magda had a secret weapon whenever her mummy punished her. She cried, loudly, sometimes for hours, like an actress. Eventually, her father couldn’t bear it and came to her rescue. When Magda couldn’t cry any more, she started thinking about something very sad, like cute little puppies dying. Then she could cry again. It worked. Her daddy didn’t want his little Princess to be unhappy.

When she cried like that after the cake punishment, Bruno took his daughter back to the dining room after exactly 10 minutes, she checked on her nice Longines Swiss watch that she got for her birthday. She was still allowed to eat her dinner. Not the cake, her mother didn’t allow it. But Magda had enough of that cake anyway.

The cook Anna didn’t seem to like Magda; she kept chasing her from the kitchen. It didn’t occur to Magda that it might have something to do with her always eating sultanas and looking into the pots to find out what was Anna cooking. Once, Magda dropped the pot of soup she was tasting and Anna had to make the soup again from scratch. Fortunately, Magda didn’t get scalded, but the soup went everywhere, on the hob and on the floor.

Anna used to be a cook for one of Franzi’s Czech friends, who was moving from Prague to Brno. “She’s a wonderful cook, but moody, I hope you can cope with that, Franzi,” the friend said.

The friend was right, Anna had a temper. Almost every month, she gave Magda’s parents her notice about something silly, only for Bruno and Franzi to beg her to stay. Yet, she always stayed and soon became almost part of the family.

Magda remembered when the Nazis arrived in Prague. It was 15 March 1939. They were standing on the pavement, Franzi was holding Magda’s and Oskar’s hands, Bruno was standing behind them. It was very cold for March, and sleet was blowing in their

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faces. Magda was watching those cars and tanks, driving on the other side of the road. Their steering wheels were on the left, not on the right like her daddy’s car. The cars used to drive on the left, but the Nazis changed that in one day. They just kept driving on the right when they crossed the border.

The pavements in Prague were full of people, watching the invasion. That was the first time Magda saw her daddy cry, although he told her that it was the sleet hurting his eyes when she asked him. He was not the only one, many of the adults on the pavement seemed to cry. Now the Nazis were in power. What used to be Czechoslovakia was now called Böhmen und Mähren. The country was much smaller now. After the Nazis invaded Poland, too, the war started.

Magda used not to care if she was Jewish. Sometimes she felt it was great to be both Czech and Jewish. In December, Hanukkah brought the candles, the dreidel game — the dice with Hebrew letters. She liked the little gifts of chocolate coins and other sweets that she and Oskar got every one of the eight days of Hanukkah, and the festive meals. Sometimes, Franzi let her light the candles. But unlike many other Jewish families, for Magda’s family, the celebrations did not end on the eights day. The family celebrated Christmas, too, in the house of her uncle Otto, who was married to a non-Jew.

Otto and his wife Marie didn’t have any children, but they always had a Christmas tree and Aunt Marie baked ten sorts of Christmas cookies. She had a cook, like Magda’s family, but she said that she preferred cooking the Christmas meal herself. All the family went there for dinner every Christmas Eve, and they always had fried carp with potato salad. Magda didn’t like carp, you had to watch for bones.

“Don’t talk, Magda, you will get a fish bone stuck in your throat and it would have to be cut out!” she remembered her father saying. Bruno probably just wanted to scare her, but why not have meat instead of fish, and be able to talk at dinner? The Czech Christmas cookies were yummy, especially the little moon shaped vanilla rolls, made with ground almonds. Aunt Marie and Uncle Otto always left lots of presents for the children — Magda and her brother

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Oskar, cousins Irma and Gerd — under the Christmas tree. Cousin Hana wasn’t a child anymore, so she didn’t get any toys, but they always gave her books. The other adults never got any presents. Aunt Marie said the presents were from Baby Jesus, but Magda knew very well that Uncle Otto was buying them. Aunt Marie was a Roman Catholic like the Stein’s cook Anna. They both wore a cross on their neck. But otherwise they were very different. Aunt Marie was beautiful, whereas the cook Anna was fat and ugly, with a wart on her big nose.

“Anna’s nose is more Jewish than mine!” joked Bruno.

The religion classes in school were once a week, always the last lessons in the day, so that Catholic, Protestant and Jewish children could all go to a different class. Magda used to go to the Jewish religion class. The rabbi was old and couldn’t manage the children. There was such noise! The children talked, threw the wet sponge for washing the blackboard at each other and didn’t listen to the lessons. Magda only managed to learn some Hebrew letters. The letters were also used as numbers, strange.

“You sounded like a class of monkeys, not children.” Franzi once said when she was picking Magda up.

Later Magda went to the Protestant classes. The whole family was baptised shortly before.

“It might help us with the Nazis”, said Bruno.

The Protestant pastor Mr. Homola was nice. The way he told those biblical stories was a bit like theatre, he changed his voice, made faces. He also made Oskar, Magda, and the other Jewish children feel special. When they joined the class, he said: “We must all respect and be nice to these children, they come from an ancient tribe that founded our religion. They are our brothers and sisters, and they are living through hard times.”

It was nice, but it also made Magda giggle. Tribe? Like the American Red Indians from the books Oskar reads? I am not Jewish anymore; I am a Czech Protestant.

But the Nazis didn’t believe that. And now I can’t go to school, I will never see Pastor Homola again.

When Magda got home, Anna opened the door for her.

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“Oh Anna, where is Mummy? Those stupid Nazis decided that Jewish children can’t go to school.”

Magda cried, and this time it was real. Anna embraced her, which was weird, but it was nice to be pulled to Anna’s large breasts, warm and soft, like lying on a pillow. Then she started baking a chocolate cake. That cheered Magda up and she stopped crying.

“Big chocolate cake, really?”

“Yes Magda, and it will be all just for you,” Anna said. “I will make something else for your brother.”

“Oskar hates school, he’ll be pleased!”

But she was wrong, he wasn’t. He tried to hide it, but Magda was pretty sure he was crying, too.

I am republlishing this, and it might be difficult to buy the [paperback

If you find difficult to get the paperback,you can write to me here and I can arrange it for £10.99 including postage. The book could be signed by me if you wish and tell me whom to mention. Warning- I have a typical doctors’ handwritning.

I ate my book with friends and family on my birthday

It was delicious. And hopefully you’ll enjoy my book as much as we enjoyed
the cake.

Tomorrow, I will publish here the first chapter of my book. a taster. Plus,
details how to get the paperback which might be temporarily unavailable elsewhere.

You can get the paperback, signed if you wish, by writing here. for £10.99
including postage.

 

If you know me, stop here, you know all this.

This isfor you, those many people who never read my book “Why Didn’t They Leave?”Maybe you should!You can access it here.Now you probably think: “Thecheek, how dare she telling us what to read?” Well,maybe it will make you curious.  I am avery curious woman, and being a family doctor was a perfect job for this, peopletell you things.  I’m retired now.Whatis the book about?Family saga of a Czech Jewish family- 1938-2006.“Oh,not another Holocaust book!” you probably think. Holocaust only takesabout a third of the book, but of course, while those survivors are still amongus, it will never go away. So yep, maybe it is “another Holocaust book”.The main protagonist, Zuzana, like me, was born after the war, into communist Czechoslovakia.She had a very difficult mother (like I did). Loving, too,although you have to dig deep to find that love. I am not Zuzana; I wish I were. She is bolder than Iever was. Her mother is my mother, though, the only character in the book whois not fictitious. Are you curious yet? I hope so.Whenevermembers of my family thought about emigration and did not, it was a mistake.1938-that mistake cost many of them their life, 1948 when the communist came to power, 1968 when the Soviet Union crashed the Prague Spring, … I was determined not to make the same mistake. So, after trying to get the permission to goabroad for a short break, I managed to emigrate. Hmmmm. It was 1986 and only 3years after, the communist regime crumbled. Did I make a mistake? Should a book writtenabout me be called “Why didn’t she stay?”I lost my roots, and now I can just fly. I am a pork eating, Christmas celebrating Czech Jew living in England. Am I lost, not belonging anywhere?No,it makes me free. I don’t miss my roots.However, those refugees that are everywhere nowadays, are not as lucky as I was. Comingfrom a communist country, obtaining political asylum was simple.  I didn’twant my children to be lied to in school like I was, I wanted them to be free.I was not free, living in a communist country, but nobody tried to kill me in Prague. I feel like wearing a big logo on a t-shirt:   BE KIND TO REFUGEES, NEXT TIME IT COULD BE YOU But I only wear t shirts in the gym.So,what is my book about? Emigration, racism, antisemitism, living in a foreigncountry , and difficult mother daughter relationships, about love, and indifference, and dislike (hate might be too strong a word). It’s about Czechoslovakia, England, Caribbean. And yes, it is about people beingdifferent. But we shouldn’t forget that we are all the same species. We are all people, and the differences aresmall.

 

Just a note on my reading

I have had a busy time, but now I worry my blog followers will forget that I exist.

So maybe I will just show what I have been listening to or reading lately and start writing proper blog later.Fome of those boooks connect to my childhood.

And if you are bored by other people talking about books, well, don’t read this. I won’t be offended.

Jonathan Swift Gulliver’s Travels

This was he best audiobook so far. Brilliant. Witty, clever, well read. My favourite audiobook this year.Now I might read it again. I read it in Czech several time as a young teenager and loved it. But as a child, I did not get the marvellous sarcasm and descriptions of society. And only an adult who knows England can understand it properly. England that gave me political asylum and that is my home now. And despite some negative aspects of history,a country where this critical book was published in 18th century has an admirable tradition of freedom.

I thought his English of 18th century would be too inaccessible for me. I was very surprised about Swift’s modern language and thinking- especially in the third part. There, the humans are like animals, wild Yahoos, whereas the intelligent sophisticated cultured creatures are horses- Houyhnhnms. Well, it is an English book, and they love horses here, even women who look like horses are considered beautiful. So when Gulliver – a smart Yahoo for them- tells the horses that women don’t get the same education as men in England, they are shocked. ” So you leave half of the population uneducated and then let that half look after the young?” Swift seemed very modern for his time. Try the book, it is marvellous.

Barbara Kingsolver Demon Copperhead audiobook

I loved this audiobook, the fascinating paraphrasing, moving David Copperfield to modern USA. As a child, I used to love David Copperfield – I read it at least 3 x in Czech translation . This book is darker, very dark. But brilliant. The description of drug addiction is also unusually accurate.

Charles DickensDavid Copperfield

I read this at least 3 times in Czech when I as about 11. I loved it, in a way more than when I tried in English as an adult,the Czech translation from 1934 was more accessible then Dicken’s rather archaic English. Recent reading of Demon Copperhead reminded me of this favourite book from my childhood.

Lina Lipiner Katz A Life Inherited

This book of a fellow second generation Holocaust survivor, as our generation is called despite not being alive during the Holocaust ,was fascinating, because it was so different than my experience.The book is well written, characters are alive, and the voice very powerful.The main character, growing up in America- presumably the author-was affected by the war experiences of her family during the war from early childhood. The trauma was real for her, the worry that the Nazis would come and arrest them all…I didn’t find out about being Jewish till I was 14,my parents didn’t tell me to protect me. I was cross, like any teenager finding out about a family secret. Now I wonder… Was it a wise decision? I could cope better as an older teenager and adult when I found out the horrible details. Now I am much closer to my Jewish identity,and I installed Stolpersteine on a Prague pavement as a reminder .

Prince Harry Spare

Well, I bought it out of curiosity. I don’t like the vicious British press, the intrusion ,the paparazzis. But that didn’t prevent me from being prejudiced to this young privileged whining man…But listening to him reading it, I realised that it is not so simple, That being a young royal constantly being spied on by the press,the past, his mother Diana , the palace logistics, it is not easy to get through unharmed. The book was honest, not over dramatic, of course only his point of view, but still, I wish him and his family well.

So this is it, just telling you I am still alive and reading, or listening to audiobooks while doing other things.

My book contract is ending and I will re-publish my novel Why Didn’t They Leave ?” directly to Amazon, selling the paperbacks myself. So it will still be available in case you know someone who would like to read it.

Is talking in company in a language the other people don’t understand rude if there is a common language you can use? I think it is.

I am thinking about languages.

Learning a foreign language is an important part of emigration, and my life and my writing are never far from the migration question. Question, not a refugee or migration crisis. I think that emigration and mixing of various populations is a good thing.

So, I love and thoroughly recommend the book Open Borders.

 It’s a comic book, doesn’t take long to read. Try it.

I was thinking about emigration from my then communist country many many years before |I managed to succeed. That was partly why I learned so many languages. I speak 5 languages, all of them with a Czech accent. I live in England. I am the friendly alien here. They tolerate aliens well.

They speak English all the time, of course.

I do when they are around. I always felt that talking in a language the others in the company don’t understand is rude. Bad manners. I don’t mean situations when no common language is available.

I always only talked to my family in Czech when there were no English speakers around.

Not everybody does it. When I am in Prague, I sometimes have my nails done. In England, a lovely Romanian woman does my nails, and we talk in English. I don’t speak Romanian and she doesn’t speak Czech.

In the Prague nail salon, the manicurists are Vietnamese, and I talk to them in Czech. Their Czech is usually all right, especially in the view of how hard Czech language is.

The problem is, they only talk in Czech to me, monosyllabically. “Which colour”? “Put your hand inside the lamp…”

It’s OK. But.but but… They all talk loudly to each other in Vietnamese. Nonstop.

No, I don’t suspect they talk about me, but I still think it is rude. I even complained once to the manager (also Vietnamese).

“They need relaxation,” she said.

If they are there for relaxation, they should pay me instead of me paying them, I thought. but I didn’t say anything,paid, and left.

However, last week, I had my revenge, and it wasn’t even intentional.

I always sleep badly, but my insomnia was particularly bad last week. Sleep deprivation makes me slow and irritable at the same time. It also makes me mix languages.

That was the case in the difficult time of my first years in the UK, when I was working ridiculos hours in hospitals. That was before the junior doctor’s strikes and contract changes. I might only sleep 4 hours in 3 days, weekend on call being almost non-stop work from Friday morning till Monday evening. My bleep kept going off, night and day,

So occasionally, I would speak to the British patients in Czech at 4 a.m. and only their puzzled faces told me they didn’t understand.

Last week, when I was having my nails done it was the same as always. The manicurist was chatting loudly in Vietnamese with someone else over my head.

The only difference was, I was tired and sleep deprived.

So, when she asked me a question in Czech, I answered in English, without noticing. She noticed, of course, and rather than saying something, called the supervisor. That is when I realised something was wrong. The supervisor talked to me in slow English.

“Oh, did I speak English? I am ever so sorry,” I apologised when I realised what happened.

The supervisor left, and the manicurist went back to my nails, while chatting loudly in Vietnamese, a language I don’t even know how to say hello or thank you in.

I dozed off, and then I did it again! Only her puzzled face told me I was talking English instead of Czech.

Well, eventually, she finished my manicure and pedicure, and I got up to pay.

I was embarrassed about my drowsy lapses into English.

But then, I started to smile, and my grin was getting wider and wider.

Revenge, sweet revenge!

Of course, I have no doubt that nothing will change. Those loud incomprehensible conversations will carry on, and maybe they DO talk about me, the confused old woman .

I suspect they don’t. I am not planning to learn Vietnamese to find out.

But a least one of them might realise what it is like when people exclude you by talking in a language you don’t understand when you DO HAVE one language in common.

Maybe they will stop doing it.

But nope, some things don’t change. Next time I will bring my headphones and listen to music. Or just see my Romanian manicurist and -pedicurist in England and go without nail care when I am in Prague.

Leaving the salon, I was still smiling. I imagined that next time, I could talk to them in French, German or Russian and pretend not to know I am doing it.

Could be fun.

A rather bookish Seasons Greetings

I would like to wish you all a wonderful not stressful holiday. As far as that goes, I am always failing not to stress. No reason, my non religious Christmas are always great.

I haven’t finished my new novel yet; I am reading more than writing My new novel will be a reversal of Kafka’s metamorphosis. A wasp who turns into a human. I am not sure if she finishes badly or not. For years, I remembered Kafka’s Metamorphosis with a happy ending – The beetle flies away and abandons his dreadful parents. I read it badly, in the book, he died. And no, I am NOT comparing myself to Kafka, but I think my ending was better,

I read some very good books, Salman Rushdie’s autobiography Joseph Anton,  Nadezhda Mandelstam and Evgenia Ginzburg memoirs, Generations of Winter by the son of Evgenia Ginzburg Vasilij Aksjonov- one of the best books I read in the last 5 years. I have read many other books, but I will stop boring you. Apart from the fact that most of the recent reads were in Czech. Somebody should stop me going to bookshops in Prague. To add insult to injury, the books are mostly hardbacks!

My favourite author Salman Rushdie was attacked by a fanatic who probably never read any of his books. He survived, only just. There is a new Salman Rushdie novel coming out in February, I already ordered it. I would like to wish him a long life!

I had an interesting year. This sounds completely different to a Czech person and a British or American person.

There is the “Chinese curse MAY YOU LIVE IN INTERESTING TIMES! In fact, it is not a Chinese curse, it was made up by the father of Neville Chamberlain, British Victorian politician Joseph Chamberlain.

 As I found out working in England, if you have an idea during a meeting, and people say “Hmm… Interesting” it actually means Don’t even think about it.

Well, the Czechs see it differently. For us “interesting” is positive.

So now I wonder should my wish be “May your year 2023 be boring”?

Nope, I wouldn’t go that far.

So on the pain of being taken the wrong way, as a curse, I wish you a nice and interesting year 2023

THIS IS AN ADDENDUM,

A Chinese friend just told me that in Chinese culture, Interesting means interesting. Like with the Czechs. I always knew the Anglo-Saxons were excentric!

No, I haven’t forgotten, September is my Salman Rushdie month.

There is no news, probably intentional, and I hope he’s recovering. He has a new book called Victory City coming in February 2023.

For some reason, I can’t find my old copy of The Satanic Verses that I bought in 1989. I probably lent it to someone. Grrrrrrr. I should be like a librarian and write things down.

I will be gradually re-reading his books, first my favourites. Shalimar the Clown, Moor’s last sigh, Shame, Haroun and the Sea of Stories, Midnight Children…

But then I will try to re-read the ones I didn’t like THAT MUCH; I might change my mind.

Fury, Quichotte. Some books are better the second time round.

But I am thinking about his future. What is going to happen to Mr Rushdie ? It looks grim. He will never be safe. So he has probably gone to hiding again. I don’t hate easily, and I don’t get angry very often.

But I hate those clerics insisting that the fatwah against Mr Rushdie is still valid. I am angry with people condemning a book they never read. I am angry with journalists and writers saying platitudes about “ people shouldn’t offend other people’s religions”.

Religions have done a lot of evil in the past. And one should be able to joke, ask questions, talk freely. I am not saying we would not be polite and non-offensive, but we should have the freedom to talk about religion even if we don’t believe.

I have been involved with two zoom church groups, one in Basking Ridge, New Jersey, one in Oxford, UK. Their discussion about Old and New Testaments, about religions, various stories. For example, a cycle about Abraham and Isaac and the various interpretations were fabulous. There was a rabbi and a protestant preacher ,sometimes there is an art historian.

They are all deeply religious, but also tolerant and with a sense of humour. I love those people, and despite their knowledge that I am completely Godless and that I have rather outrageous comments, they tolerate me in their meetings.

They didn’t even mind my hypothesis that for God to turn into a human in Christ, God in Christus form would have to forget he was a God, and I compared it to my concussion I had when I was skiing. I didn’t remember anything, not even that my father died in the past, but it all came back after 6 hours. So I said it is as if God had a concussion, so he felt an actual human even at crucifixion, but then on resurrection, the memory of Godliness came back.

They were not cross with me! Amazing. Nobody declared a fatwa. But then, most religious people, including Muslims are not bigoted homicidal maniacs.

I wish Salman Rushdie a good health and writing a lot more books.

I would say “ Let’s pray for him” but I can’t pray, I don’t have anybody to pray to.

So I will wish for  this good man and a genius to be left alone to write. And keep his many friends to be with.

My all Indian book club joined me in my Salman Rushdie month.

I am still reading the autobiography of Salman Rushdie. It shows the complex situation about the fatwa, the involvement of other artists and politicians, the impact on Salman Rushdie and his family. it shows people behave well, or badly.

Mr Rushdie sounds honest, sensible and level-headed. The arrogance described by journalists before doesn’t seem to be there.

The book is impressive, and because it is written in third person, it reads like a novel.

My book club joined my “Rushdie September 22”month, and we are all reading his books. All members of my book club apart from me are from India. It is interesting to see the reactions. My book club friends know India, they all only moved to the UK in their thirties. Of course, their view is different. It is the same when I read Czech novels, my knowledge and attitude to the problems makes my understanding different. Is it better or worse? I am not sure. but I am really looking forward to hear my friends’ comments.

Salman Rushdie named his second son after Milan Kundera. I am thinking about the comparison. Both educated, intellectual, both good and prolific writers. Some readers find their books hard to read, I don’t. Their books are different, but the problems are similar. Identity of an emigrant, writing about his home country which is no longer their home.

I am thinking about my writing. A friend, another writer, told me my best writing is autobiographical. Maybe I should go back to that. Share my culture, and my adaptation to the culture of my adopted country. Refugees are not going to go away. I feel people should try to understand, get to meet and communicate with the others”.

It is my strong conviction that we are more alike than we think. We can add so many things, adopt parts of other cultures. Reading literary fiction written by someone from a different nation, about a country we don’t know will bring us together.

We need that, don’t we? If you would like to join my Rushdie tribute month, please use email, FB, my blog for comments.

It is still August, but more in my Salman Rushdie month. it will be a couple of days longer.

I am reading his autobiography.

The cover name comes from Joseph Conrad and Anton Chekhov.

The book is written in third person. unusual for an autobiography, but it works. It shows the life in hiding, as if this is not the whole Salman Rushdie, just the Salman Rushdie after ” his fatwa”.

It is well written, witty, sad, clever.

It also explains all the myths about his arrogance, ungratefulness, selfishness, and of course the allegedly unreadable “The Satanic Verses “

I disagree with all this.

The person writing this book does not seem arrogant, selfish, or ungrateful.

And although The Satanic Verses is NOT my favourite Salman Rushdie book, it was a certainly not unreadable, and I never thought about not finishing it. It’s an interesting book.

Most of the people criticising it probably never read it. But even if the book was terrible, it does not justify a death sentence for the author. And it is NOT a terrible book. And Salman Rushdie is a talented writer and it seems, a good man.

I wish him a recovery from the horrible injuries caused by intolerance and hatred.

I am having a Salman Rushdie month, will you join me?

I have been thinking about my favourite English writing living author. He is fortunately still living despite the horrendous stabbing attack last week.

I remember that I wanted to buy The Satanic Verses when I found out about the fatwa. I saw Midnight Children in the local bookstore. I asked if they had any other Salman Rushdie books. The shop assistant was careful.

“What did you have in mind, Madame?” When I said “Satanic Verses”, he told me he can order it for me. The book arrived a month later. It was posted from the USA.

I live in Watford, UK, a town with a large Muslim, mainly Pakistani minority. Shortly after, I was reading the large paperback on the underground. I looked up and there were 5 young men, dressed in traditional Muslim dress. I put my thumbs on the top of the pagers, covering the name of the book and the name of the author. Nobody said anything.

I liked The Satanic Verses, but not as much as Rushdie’s other books. My favourites are Shalimar the Clown, and Haroun and the Sea of Stories. I bought the autobiography, Joseph Anton, but I never read it. I’m reading it now. Written, unusually, in the third person, it makes it sound less subjective. It reads like fiction. Was that intentional?

In a new rebellion against the fatwa, I bought all the books I only had on kindle, I want his books in my bookcase, I also bought two of his books I haven’t read before.

This is my Salman Rushdie time. I am an emigrant from a communist country. There was censorship, banned books, banned authors. We read samizdat books, or books smuggled in from the Czech Canadian exile publishing house- 68 Publishers, run by Zdena Salivarova, wife of another of my favourite author Josef Škvorecký. She was a talented writer but given up her writing career to concentrate on enabling other authors to be read. She should get a Nobel Prize.

Then I emigrated and could read anything, Even The Satanic Verses.

Freedom of expression and tolerance to various opinions is important for me. Salman Rushdie is important to me. The theme of his books is very often migration, identity. I think my novel is about that. Some reviewers think my book is mainly about a mother -daughter relationship. I suppose it is both.

I hope Salman Rushdie is going to get better and will write many more books. I hope he is going to be able to give talks, like his wonderful essays about other writers. Do you know the one about Philip Roth?

Let’s make September 2022 a Salman Rushdie month. Let’s read his books, talk and write about them. We are living in a time of increased oppression in Afghanistan, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Russia, many other places. We all need freedom, access to non-biased news, free press, tolerance to other people’s opinions, beliefs, a safe environment for open discussions about anything.

If you are reading this, and you never read a book by Salman Rushdie, read one now. In the Salman Rushdie September 2022. But don’t stop at that, maybe we could make it a Salman Rushdie year.

We must not let the hate and bigotry win.