A PLACE CALLED FREEDOM - Book review

Ken Follett’s novel A Place Called Freedom was published in 1995 and is a fascinating dive into history. 

The prologue or whatever (it’s untitled) is a conceit that we could do without; it mentions an iron neck-collar worn by slaves: ‘This man is the property of Sir George Jamisson of Fife, AD 1767’.

The book is broken into three parts: Scotland, London, Virginia.

Mack McAsh is a young miner in Fife; a slave to the mine owner, Sir George. ‘Life was hard for miners, but it was harder for their wives’ (p116). Mack speaks up about the injustice he and his fellows endure and is brutally punished: ‘... you have to understand that they don’t feel pain as we do’ (p132).

Lizzie Hallim used to play with Mack when they were bairns, but now they are worlds apart. She is attractive, indeed. ‘I can get a husband whenever I like. The problem is finding one I can put up with for more than half an hour’ (p14). Her mother needs Lizzie to make a match that will save their property and land since her father has died leaving much debt. The obvious answer is Jay Jamisson, son of Sir George...

This is a time of unrest in the colonies, Boston boycotting all British import, and even giving up tea!  This problem may also affect the lucrative business of transporting and selling seven-year slaves – criminals sent from England to the New World: ‘130 or 140 convicts packed into the hold shoulder-to-shoulder like fish in a basket’ (p44).

Anxious to have his freedom, Mack escapes the mines and finds himself in London, where he falls foul of the law – thanks to the intervention of the Jamissons. He faces the Westminster magistrate, Sir John Fielding. ‘Fielding was blind, but that did not hinder him in his work’ (p249).

Follett has done his research – as he always does. There’s a passage concerning ‘the Blind Beak’ Fielding in The Fatal Shore: A History of the Transportation of Convicts to Australia 1787-1868) (published in 1986) by Robert Hughes. Fielding, half-brother of Henry, was ‘able to identify3,000 different malefactors by their voices alone’ (ibid p26). Due to the American War of Independence, no more convicts were sent to the Americas, so the prison hulks of Britain were overflowing; the government therefore had to resort to transporting felons to Australia instead of to Virginia.

However, this story occurs before the First Fleet to the antipodes, before 1776 in fact. Jay and George Jamisson are classic villains. The fate of Lizzie and Mack are inevitably entwined.

The 567 pages fly by to a satisfactory ending.

Editorial comment:

‘I think to myself’ (p3) – ‘I think’ is adequate!

‘he thought to himself’ (p214). Enough said...

THE FERGUSON RIFLE - Book review

Louis L’Amour’s novel The Ferguson Rifle was published in 1973 and my paperback copy is the fourth reprint (1982). And I’ve just got round to reading it!

It’s early 1800s and is narrated in the first person by Ronan Chantry who is travelling west after the sad demise of his wife and son in a cabin fire. He travels with ‘a good horse, a small pack, an excellent knife, and my Ferguson rifle... my constant companion since my childhood, all that remains of my past, that and a few precious books to stimulate my thoughts...’ (p1). The breech-loading rifle was presented to him by a Major Ferguson in 1780 which he'd made himself.  He had no idea where he was headed. ‘As long as one travels toward a promised land, the dream is there, to stop means to face the reality, and it is easier to dream than to realise the dream’ (p15).

Ronan is well-travelled, a professor of law and literature; he’d ‘studied at the Sorbonne and at Heidelberg and had taught history at Cambridge and William and Mary’ (p22). But he accepted that he had plenty to learn in the Old West from frontiersmen he encountered. ‘The mind that is geared to learning, that is endlessly curious, cannot cease from contemplating and comparing’ (p37).

He soon comes to realise that though he was a civilised man he now existed in an uncivilised world.

He joins a group of friendly frontiersmen who appreciate his skill with the rifle, notably in hunting but also in despatching renegade Indians! On their travels they meet up with a strong-willed woman, Lucinda Falvey, who is searching for some 200-year-old lost treasure. ‘... with winter coming on, the aspen had already turned to gold. The earth where we were to sleep was inches deep with the golden leaves... treasure enough for me’ (p118).

Like all his books, L’Amour puts the reader in the scene. ‘... I could see the moon. The sky was impossibly clear, bathing the forest below in misty golden light. Not the mist of cloud or dampness, but of moonlight among the trees. Behind me bulked the vastness of the mountains, below the steep hillside, the shimmering pool of the aspen...’ (p120).

And Lucinda’s treacherous uncle Rafen is on her trail, determined to wrest the treasure from her grasp.

A short, fast-paced book filled with interesting characters, a smattering of history – even the Knights of Malta! – and the usual western lore so familiar to readers of the author.

Recommended.

Remembering the Berlin Wall

In 2004 this story was published in a magazine; it concerns the fall of the Berlin Wall. It seems appropriate to resurrect it on the thirtieth anniversary of that historic event. The story is now featured in my collected short stories volume four, Codename Gaby which contains 18 previously published short stories with historical themes - here.

ONE DAY, WE’LL WALK THROUGH

I waited and waited. And the memories flooded back, bringing the heartache as well as the joy, the short-lived joy...

***

‘Berliner Weise mit Schuss?’ the blond young man asked as I came over to his table with a damp cloth.

I smiled. ‘Just a moment, while I clean this away.’ I wiped pastry crumbs from the Formica surface.

Bringing the white beer injected with raspberry syrup, I noted his thin angular frame in ill-fitting worn overalls. His long dirty fingers prompted me to think of artistic hands.

‘Thank you, fraulein,’ he said, and smiled sheepishly, sipping the drink. His eyes were a beautiful slate grey, but they tended to avoid mine.

The restaurant was not busy, even though it was lunchtime. Most of the factory workers gathered in the bars or brought sandwiches. Few could afford Western prices for food, even sixteen years after the war.

‘I've not seen you in here before,’ I observed pleasantly.

He said, defensively, ‘No, I – I only – I promised myself this drink, my father said he used to–’

‘I’m sorry, I only meant I would have noticed you. I meant nothin–’

Mollified, he shrugged narrow shoulders, seeming unsure of himself.

‘Was it worth the wait?’

‘Wait?’

‘The drink.’

He sipped at the liquid, nodded. ‘Yes, it’s very nice.’ He turned, to eye Heinz drying dishes behind the counter. ‘Did you make it?’

‘No. I’m the cook around here, not the barman!’

‘Oh.’

He looked unkempt, as if the clothes of a manual worker were totally unsuited to him. Impulsively, I said, ‘Do you paint?’

He couldn't be more than twenty, I thought as he creased his brow in confusion. ‘No, I’m a machinist,’ he explained.

‘My hobby’s drawing, and I just wondered–’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, I draw,’ he smiled, ‘whenever I can.’ He pulled out a few scraps of paper from his torn pocket. Carefully, he spread them on the Formica, and gazed up, clearly seeking reassurance.

If the sketches of the ruined Reichstag and the Schoneberg district’s Rathaus had been inept, lacking depth or any artistic merit, I would still have praised him. He seemed so lonely, so timid and vulnerable, in need of warmth. I flushed at these thoughts and said, truthfully, ‘They’re wonderful. I can only draw people. I’m hopeless when it comes to buildings!’

I glanced at Heinz, who was preoccupied with watching the passers-by in the street. Nothing spoiling, so I sat on the empty wooden chair opposite the customer and asked, ‘May I?’ and held the crumpled sheets as he nodded. ‘You’ve drawn these straight lines free-hand–’ I looked up, to see his eyes shining, alight, his lips smiling.

***

I waited, and waited.

The restaurant had changed beyond all recognition in the intervening twenty-eight years. I used to count the days, before that terrible night.

Shaking off the melancholy, I stepped inside, smiled at the headwaiter. With commendable alacrity, he rushed forward and pulled out a chair at the table by the window.

The scene outside had altered, too. Now, West Berlin was affluent. ‘A coffee and cognac, please, Hans,’ I ordered, and allowed more memories to sweep over me...

***

His name was Dieter. He crossed daily from East to West Berlin to work in the factory opposite the cafe. His parents were old before their time, incapable of crossing to the West; he was devoted to them, and wouldn’t leave them though he had heard that many had passed through the reception centres last week.

Rumours were rife. The Soviets seemed in a belligerent mood: the tension was palpable. Some said it was like the Berlin Blockade all over again. He couldn’t remember that, though.

To take his mind off the rumours, I would pack a sandwich lunch for us both and we would walk down Ku-damm with its wonderful shops and rich colours.

His eyes opened wide in amazement every time we walked down Kurfurstendamm: ‘We have nothing like this in our sector.’ The ghost of a war-torn Europe still stalked the streets there. Unlike the eastern sector, restoration had moved fast. I proudly told him that my mother was one of the famous rubble ladies – a trummer frau – who dug the city out of its wreckage with her bare hands, brick by brick. There were enormous rubble mountains, now landscaped, to testify to their efforts.

My mother took to Dieter immediately, but typically expressed concern about his gaunt appearance. But no amount of potato dumplings and pork, cooked with fried fruit and rich gravy, put so much as an ounce on him. ‘He uses up too much nervous energy, dear,’ she observed kindly.

Another time, while drawing the ruins of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, Dieter remarked, ‘I really feel we are all part of history, even now...’

I wondered if our stroll down the Strasse des 17 Juni had affected him. The street was named in memory of the Germans shot down by Russian tanks in 1953 – when Dieter was only eight – when the East Berlin construction workers laid down their tools in protest over greatly increased work ‘norms’. Near here, at the Grosse Stern, too, he had been anxious to sketch the sixty-four-meter column of dark red granite, sandstone and bronze, surmounted by a gilded figure of Victory: Siegessaule, as it is called, was raised in 1873 to commemorate the Franco-Prussian War.

The following day, we had embarked on the tiring climb of steps up the column, and the view had taken away what little breath he had left!

‘Berlin’s heart!’ he said, eventually, trying to take it all in.

I pointed out the Philharmonic Orchestra’s building, the Kustgewerbemuseum, the Natianalgalerie and the Staatsbibliothek, the latter with its ‘three million volumes, the largest library of its kind in the world,’ I concluded proudly.

Perhaps the altitude made us light-headed. We embraced, and kissed then frantically broke away in a mad dash to save his drawings that had blown free! Laughing, we chased the sheets of paper.

Breathless at the column’s base, Dieter checked the rescued sheets, shrugged, ‘Only one missing, Olga,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘Brandenburg Gate.’

‘We’ll go there again tomorrow, then.’

He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t. I’ve been given the day off, because my mother is very ill... I’ll be with her, in the hospital.’

I was sympathetic. ‘Another time, then. The gate’s not going anywhere, is it?’

As we descended the stairs, I thought on what he had said when he confronted the Brandenburg Gate, the statue turned round to face east, underlining the tragic sundering of the city. His tone had been sombre, yet tinged with hope: ‘One day, we’ll walk through there, a free people again.’ For one so young, he could be very serious.

That night, he telephoned, briefly. His mother had died, his father was adamant that he should find a better life, elsewhere. He spoke guardedly, but I understood. After the funeral, when he returned to work, he would seek asylum. My mother prepared the spare room and I counted the days, anxiously.

Then he telephoned again. ‘I’ll be returning to work tomorrow,’ he said. That was all. I didn’t sleep that night.

Next morning, August 13, 1961 I hurried to work early.

The news trickled in gradually. East Germany had closed the Berlin border, unravelling barbed wire, delivering prefabricated concrete blocks. The train services between the sectors were halted. The news revealed that 50,000 East Germans who worked in West Berlin had been turned back. The S-bahns and U-bahns were blocked.

My heart sank as I watched the television newsreel. There were no pictures, but the hazy unsubstantiated reports were enough: East German police used hoses, truncheons and teargas on crowds milling round the closed crossing points. Some bold ones had chanted, ‘Hang old Goat-beard’, referring to Herr Walter Ulbricht. But they too were brutally repulsed.

Mayor Willy Brandt appealed for calm and broadcast to the East: ‘You cannot be held in slavery for ever.’

Every spare moment, I stood at the Brandenburg Gate, watching, waiting.

Within two weeks, the Berlin Wall was erected. In the pouring rain, I whispered, ‘We’re all part of history, even now.’ And I could feel warm droplets on my cheeks, but their source was not the sky but my heart.

I tried telephoning, but the plugs had been pulled.

The weeks stretched interminably. Then, as various networks sorted themselves out, and brave people escaped, through old ruins, gardens, backyards, tunnelling, before the barriers became too formidable, I received a scribbled note on the back of a sketch of the Brandenburg Gate from the eastern side:

‘I’ll come to you on the 10th. I love you. D.’

Mixed with the heady anticipation was fear, for as I had anxiously paced the Wall I often heard shouts and shots, and been blinded by soulless searchlights.

***

How many nights had I paced the Wall? I wondered, sipping coffee in the cafe window. Too many. Eventually, I stopped. But I had never forgotten. Dieter was one of many brave men who had dared to make their bid for freedom and failed.

But I held close to me the thought that they hadn’t failed. Every sacrifice kept the hope burning, the light ever stronger. Thomas Jefferson’s words echoed down the years: ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’ History was harsh, I thought.

I was sure I had heard the shots. The news report had been brief, the next morning. A young man had been shot trying to cross the Wall. No further information reached me.

Then, years later, as Glasnost took hold, some relaxation was permitted. I owned a string of restaurants by this time. I’d been married, for three years, then divorced. Depressed and lonely, I made enquiries concerning that fateful night. And learned the truth and received letters from the eastern sector.

***

Now, I finished the coffee and left my restaurant, clutching Dieter’s old sketch with its faded message.

Crowds were milling, as they had done for day after unbelievable historic day.

I had watched with tears streaming as people clambered on top of the hated, reviled Wall and chipped at it, unmolested. I thought of all the dead: perhaps they were looking down now, and smiling, at last!

The opening of the Brandenburg Gate was a solemn moment. Herr Kohl walked through, and I strained to see.

There were so many people!

Eyes streaming, I rushed into the crowd.

Surging forward, the East Berliners were laughing, cheering, singing, holding some people aloft in their infectious joy. Their future was uncertain, probably full of privations, but at last they were free! Amazingly, some held up a wheelchair, and I recognised the occupant from his recent photographs: he laughed, tears streaming. ‘Dieter!’ I called, waving his drawing.

Obligingly, they lowered him in his chair and uncannily an opening in the crowd permitted me to run to him.

Those letters had prepared me for his disability: the bullets had deprived him of the normal use of his legs.

I was about to step forward, to hug and kiss him when he held up a hand, peremptorily. ‘No, Olga, wait, please.’ And he struggled with both hands on the chair arms, and raised himself with great effort to his feet. Gripping a stick in each hand Dieter slowly, mechanically shuffled each foot forward, and walked into my arms.

For those precious few moments we could not hear the shouting and singing of the crowd.

After we had kissed, he said, softly, ‘Let’s walk through Brandenburg Gate. I have a drawing to finish, no?’

And, slowly, we walked through.

Olga Jager, November 1989

also in Kindle here...

Book companion to TV Series VICTORIA

Victoria & Albert – A Royal Love Affair

A sumptuous official companion to the TV series, this book (2017) is a pleasure to own and to read.

Co-written by Daisy Goodwin (the series’ excellent screenwriter) and historian Sara Sheridan, the book covers in 303 pages the relationship between the two royals and the many individuals who came into their orbit. It is complemented by many still photographs from the two seasons of Victoria and the Christmas special.

The TV series is not a historical documentary but a dramatised rendering of Queen Victoria, her husband Albert and others, and as such it does tinker with historical fact for dramatic effect; and the book highlights these divergences – whether that’s the close bond between Victoria and Lord Melbourne,  the actual age of the Duchess of Buccleuch (Victoria’s contemporary, not as depicted by Diana Rigg), or the good Dr Traill (Goodwin’s great-great-great-grandfather, in fact) who didn’t actually meet the Queen, and so on...

There are several behind-the-scenes insights, whether that’s the sets, the language used,  the costumes or the food

In addition there are articles on all manner of aspects Victorian: Sex for Sale, Racy Victorians behind closed doors, the language of flowers, pregnancy and childbirth, drug use, corsets, drinks, etiquette, beards, the railways, poverty, the Corn Laws, the Chartists, and the Irish potato famine.

In my view there is only one blemish, which a vigilant editor could have excised: a misguided statement by Goodwin. ‘One thing I feel quite sure of is that Victoria would have been appalled by Brexit. Victoria and Albert tried to create their own informal European union through strategic marriages of their children. Victoria may have been English to her fingertips, but she understood the value of a family of nations.’ (p247)

I would suspect that the truth would be the opposite. Victoria was proud of her Empire and would have loathed the fact that her country’s sovereignty had been discarded due to Prime Minister Major’s infatuation with the Maastricht Treaty in the 1990s. And of course Britain already had a family of nations – the Commonwealth – whose trade had to be adversely affected by membership of the European Union.

A superb book for anyone who has enjoyed the Victoria series.

The Lunatic Casino

History is filled with quirky characters, larger-than-life people, and the Old West has more than its fair share of them.

In the UK the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum was established in 1863. Nowadays, Broadmoor Hospital is a high-security psychiatric hospital with about 200 patients. What has this to do with the Old West? Only the name: the Broadmoor Casino was built by Count James Pourtales in 1891 near Pikes Peak in central Colorado. Many people thought he was mad to undertake the project!

The count, a German nobleman, was seeking good investments and bought into a huge dairy farm near Colorado Springs. Then the mad idea took hold. He decided to found a resort town on part of the property.

He built a pleasure palace to lure buyers of lots. This ‘palace’, the Broadmoor Casino was on the shores of a 15-acre artificial lake that was stocked with trout. There were 32 Corinthian columns gracing its exterior, and its rooftop terrace offered a splendid view of the mountains. Inside there was a grand foyer, a double staircase leading to a grand ballroom and a concert hall, three dining rooms and a salon for the ladies.

Pourtales sited gaming rooms on the first floor. He intended to make profits from the sale of the liquor he supplied to the gamblers; he didn’t risk house funds on the games themselves. Method in his madness: Colorado Springs was a dry town.

A resident orchestra comprising European musicians played regularly; food was provided by a French chef.

Incredibly, he hired a lady parachutist to promote the resort: she landed in the lake but survived.

The grand opening of the casino was on 1 July, 1891.

However, Pourtales’ mad dream of a new township, Broadmoor City, wasn’t realised, since few wealthy punters bought lots. The Panic of ’93 depressed Colorado’s silver mining industry, which didn’t help, and within a short time Pourtales, burdened by the immense expenses that the Casino incurred, was declared bankrupt. Four years later, the Broadmoor Casino was destroyed by fire.

***

Inspired by this fascinating snippet of history, I decided to incorporate certain elements in my noir novel Coffin for Cash.

My nobleman is Baron Hans von Kempelen, aged 55. He is the owner of the Lenore Casino, near Green River.

Here is an excerpt:

Long before they reached the entrance to the casino complex, Cash and Corman rode past dozens of white-painted wooden posts, all lined up neatly: “Setting out the lots for the baron’s town plan,” Corman explained.

            Finally, an entrance arch of Doric columns declared “The Lenore Casino”. From here curved a wide drive bordered with sagebrush flowering yellow, red, pink and orange; mixed with these were sego lily and larkspur. The drive led to a long two-storey building, its veranda graced with a series of Corinthian columns. A rooftop terrace commanded a view of the surrounding countryside, and above the entrance doors, rising from the centre, was a latticework tower with a huge clock-face showing Roman numerals; a big metal pendulum swung below, partly visible through a long narrow window above the entrance.

            They tethered the horses at a hitching rail at the front steps.

            A good distance away on their right was a marble edifice, with a life-size winged angel on top.

            “That’s the baron’s little mausoleum,” Corman explained, his voice thick and laced with gravel. “It’s where his wife’s buried – minus her heart.”

            Then without saying more he led Cash up the steps and through the double doors. To one side was a Chinese sentry dressed in black and gold livery, brass buttons to his throat. He carried a sword at his belt but made no move to challenge Cash, recognising Corman.

            They entered an atrium clad in dark oak panels, the floor tiled with patterned marble. A double staircase swept to a landing with a series of double doors. “Up there,” Corman pointed, “is a ballroom, a concert hall and a couple of dining-rooms, a salon for the ladies and the baron’s private rooms.” The landing was almost on a level with the clock’s metronomic pendulum.

            Smartly dressed men and women strolled through the atrium, arm in arm, none of them taking any notice of Cash and Corman’s trail-dusted attire. Several Chinese in black and gold costumes moved to and fro, carrying newspapers, documents, and silver trays of drinks and cakes.

            Cash peered up and could distinctly hear the pendulum as it scythed through air.

            He lowered his gaze and spotted a man striding purposefully towards them.

            “Meet the baron,” Corman said, removing his hat.

            Baron von Kempelen was virtually the same height as Cash. He wore a monocle in his left eye, possessed a scar down his left cheek, and sported a Van Dyke moustache, which was as blond as his short-cropped hair. He wore a grey suit of cavalry twill, with waistcoat, and shining black shoes. Cash noted a slight bulge in the vest pocket; doubtless a derringer snug in there.

            “Corman, who is this with you?” the baron asked curtly.

            “Baron, sir, this here is US Marshal Laramie.”

            Appraising his clothes, the baron said, “You are not here for leisure, Marshal.”

            Cash took off his hat. “No, Baron. I’m here in an official capacity.” He glanced around. “Can we talk in private?”

            Von Kempelen’s unencumbered grey-green eye danced erratically then settled again on Cash. “You have me intrigued.” With one hand he made a shooing gesture to Corman. “Thank you, you can go now.”

            Wiping a hand over his bristly chin, Corman nodded. “Sure, Baron. I need to clean up.” He put on his hat, swung on his heel and went out the entrance doorway.

            “I noticed your interest in my clock,” the baron said, gazing at the swinging pendulum.

            “Yeah, it’s unusual. I reckon I can feel the breeze it makes as it swings.”

            “I had it specially made for me by a family acquaintance, Sigmund Riefler. The firm of Clemens Riefler is situated in Munich, my home city and it is known for its precision pendulum clocks.”

            “I’m impressed, Baron.”

            “German engineering is the best in the world, Marshal. Now, my office is not far. We will talk there.”

            “Fine by me, Baron. Lead on.”

            He was led to the right, through a double door that was guarded by a huge Chinese man in a smart black and gold suit and a sword with belt. They trod on thick carpets that went through three gaming rooms where patrons played on a variety of roulette wheels or card tables. Chinese male and female staff darted between people, serving trays of liquor. A smoke mist hovered above their heads; the ceiling, where visible, appeared stained.

            “Quite an enterprise you have here, Baron.”

            Von Kempelen chuckled. “It is my honey to attract the flies.” He didn’t elaborate and pushed open a door into a large office. (pp70-73)

Coffin for Cash

Available as a paperback or an e-book at these Amazon sites here