On the Trail of Sherlock: one last post from my 2013 European sojourn

My 2013 sojourn to Europe had a subtext, at least in my own mind. I have been re-reading several of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic Sherlock Holmes stories while on the trip. Meanwhile I have also visited a few places that have some connection to either the author or the great detective. It is odd that despite the fact that these are fictional stories and characters there are a number of places and sites that commemorate Sherlock Holmes.

The Sherlock Holmes Museum - 221B Baker Street, London

In some ways I am embarrassed to admit that I visited 221B Baker Street while in London, call it a guilty pleasure. Of course, this was the iconic address of the sleeping rooms inhabited by Holmes and Watson for many years. Today, the building houses the Sherlock Holmes Museum. Although it is a piece of kitsch, the building itself was a late nineteenth century boarding house complete with 13 steps to the first floor, which is stocked with period pieces to makes it look as if Holmes and Watson once lived there. Sitting by the fire, imagining yourself in consultation with Sherlock is a thrill for many fans who visit the museum. It is very popular and it makes me wonder how many visitors have actually read any of the stories as opposed to seeing one of the Robert Downey, Jr. films that deviates far away from the original story lines.

One aspect of the Holmes stories that provides fascination for many is the references to locations in England, Scotland and throughout the continent. One gets the sense that Conan Doyle’s love of travel and exploration by his descriptions and references. But it is in London, in the dingy days of industrialized pollution, that most of the stories that place. The references to the great fogs, composed of “greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in  oily drops upon the window panes” (“The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Places”), gives a sense of late nineteenth century London that was dirty and gritty. Walking the streets of London today, one can still see the effects of the so-called fogs.

Despite this, it is clear that like Holmes, Conan Doyle loved London. The references to the infinite variety and order within London details his admiration. London itself becomes a character in many of the stories, such as The Sign of Four. Note that in “The Red-Headed League” Holmes acknowledges his penchant for knowing every corner of the city. As much as Holmes loves the city, he was distrustful of the countryside. Holmes, referring to the farms and rural residences of the countryside, says to Watson:

You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought that comes to mind is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crimes may be committed there…This always fills me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside (“The Adventures of the Cooper Beeches”).

Sherlock Holmes Statue - Picardy Place, Edinburgh

It is in Scotland, specifically Edinburgh, that one can find the origins of Holmes. Conan Doyle was born at 11 Picardy Place in that city and a statue of Holmes, reportedly considering the grave of his creator, figures prominently in the square. At one corner of the roundabout is the Conan Doyle Pub, which honors the author’s literary legacy.

This is just an introduction to the links between Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes and my sojourns. I hope to bring further updates in the future, perhaps with a visit to Reichenbach Falls someday. Nevertheless, it is not far from the truth to say that Holmes, in some part, inspires this blog. In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Holmes tells Watson, “You see, but you do not observe.” In my travels, I hope to be more Holmes than Watson.

A Life Called Stockholm

I was chatting with a couple of American women on the street in Stockholm and they were telling me of their enthusiasm for the city. They made a comment that I have heard many Americans make about Stockholm, “It’s so clean and orderly!” It is true; for a major city, it is remarkable how little litter there is, graffiti is at a minimum and the parks and public spaces are well maintained. Stockholm is what we want a city to be: Pretty, clean, easy to navigate and full of cultural and entertainment options. In short, it is a place where life is good. Of course, Stockholm is not utopia; however, it entices many of us with its charm, way of life and, at least during the summer, the weather. It does not hurt that Stockholm is spread across fourteen islands. Thus, there is always waterfronts and beautiful vistas seemingly just around the corner.

In a recent New York Times blog post, Thomas B. Edsall posed the question, “Why Can’t America Be Sweden?” The post was primarily about economics and the future of the social welfare state, which, no doubt, plays a role in the appeal of the city. But the question is a long-standing one: how can the Swedes have it and not us? The area in which I stayed on this trip (Fridhemsplan) is primarily a residential neighborhood, with cafes, parks and playgrounds. I could not help but notice how many people had a wry smile as I passed them on the street. Perhaps it was the fabulous weather as we approached the midsummer holiday. Yet I perceive something more. Pairs of individuals often emerged from the local supermarket sharing the load of grocery bags by each person holding one of the handles of the shopping bags as they walked down the street. Scandinavia, and Sweden in particular, is famous for its consensus-building and cooperation (see the post on rebuilding Bodø). This aspect of Scandinavian political life has drawn the ire of several American politicians, notably President Eisenhower. But nonetheless, Scandinavians are happy and satisfied, by in large, and the envy of many.

I know it is dangerous to draw conclusions based on limited observations, but visitors sense the aspects of the good life when they come to Stockholm. 

One More Dog Story from This Trip

It is a misnomer to say that it is only the British who love dogs. I have noticed, in virtually every city on this trip, people out walking dogs despite inclement weather. Many Europeans, not just the British, love their canine friends. As evidence, consider this 1904 stain glass window in Tyska kyrkan (The German Church of Stockholm). As the family gathers to give thanks for their meal, their faithful dog remains sufficiently reverential in waiting for his/her dinner. The sharp eye might notice the bird in the birdcage in the background, but there is no doubt the dog figures more prominently.

Bodin Church

Although the churches of Bodø were destroyed in 1940, a short three kilometer walk will take you to the Bodin Parish Church. Situated in a beautiful setting, not too far from a small stream and a wooded area that is great for hiking, the church is in the former parish of Bodin which was later subsumed into Bodø. Originally completed circa 1240, the church evokes thoughts about what the area and life must have been like when it was built. It was been remodeled and refashioned several times. The sanctuary was enlarged in 1785 and the medieval part of the church was destroyed and rebuilt as part of the renovations of 1894. Yet, the small stone altar that dates from the 1300s is still extant.

Outside the church, there are a couple of interesting features as well. Across the road from the church is a monolith. There is no signs to indicate where it is from or what its disposition might be (is it real or a replica?); however, there is a similar Iron Age monolith (bautastein in Norwegian) on the grounds of the Nordland Museum, which was moved when the airport was built in 1952. Approximately 300 feet east of the Bodin Church there is another small monument standing alone in a small empty field. This monuments honors the memory of Soviet soldiers who died in Norway in the Second World War and (somewhat cryptically) indicates that some were buried “here.” Whether that is in Norway or specifically Bodin / Bodø, it is unclear. 

As I took this picture of this church I happened to look down and see a crumbled package of Lucky Strikes on the ground. I thought to myself, my dad would have loved this church. 

Bodø: Destroyed and Rebuilt

Travelling to Bodø today, in an airplane or cruise ship, makes the region seem a little less remote than even fifty years ago. The fjords and mountains still give a feeling or remoteness; knowing that you are in the Arctic, with the unique features of sunlight, shadows and weather, gives an other-worldliness impression to the traveler. Since this remains true today, the role the northern region of Norway played in the Second World War is all the more interesting. I have found references to the concern over continuous daylight and how that would affect the conduct of the war.

While the southern part of Norway capitulated after a short, but spirited, fight during the war, fighting went on in north for a longer time. The King, Haakon VII, and the government were able to escaped Oslo because of the sinking of the German cruiser Blücher. The badly outnumbered and outgunned Norwegian forces fought on despite the odds. King Haakon earned the respect of many Norwegians because of his determination to resist occupation (in 1905 he became the King after the dissolution of the union with Sweden). After the decisive battle at Narvik, a German victory seemed inevitable. By mid-June 1940, the King and cabinet escaped to London.

But while in the midst of the resistance, Bodø played a significant role. Its radio station, which was 

A picture of a picture in the Nordland Museum

founded in 1931, became a voice of resistance and carrying the news of a free Norway. Although bombed once with minor damage, the main attack on the city came on 27 May 1940. The German Luftwaffe dropped approximately 200 bombs, including many incendiaries, on Bodø. Because most of the houses and buildings were made of wood, damage was particularly devastating as reported in the New York Times:

The town is described as a mass of smoking ruins, houses, shops, hospitals and churches all having been razed. All the houses were built of wood and fire spread rapidly among them when incendiary bombs exploded in their midst. Water mains burst and the fire services were put out of action. (James MacDonald, New York Times, 30 May 1940)

The Nordland Museum, one of the oldest buildings
in the city, built 1903

Of the 6,000 or so residents, it is amazing that only fifteen people died in the attack, and two of those killed were British soldiers. Virtually every building in the town was damaged and 400 of the town’s 600 buildings were destroyed. It is why today there are very few buildings that predate 1940. One of the oldest buildings in the town, built in 1903, now houses Nordlandsmuseet (The Nordland Museum). In the wake of the attack, the Swedish government helped to build apartments for many of those left homeless in preparation for the winter of 1941.

King Haakon VII would become a heroic figure in Norway. His stay in exile was marked by weekly broadcasts, via the BBC, to his homeland. Two days before the attack on Bodø the New York Times published an editorial about the King:

Statue of Haakon VII in Central Bodø

Most Norwegians now live under the hobnail boot of the conqueror, their liberties gone, their property confiscated, their leading citizens subject to arbitrary arrest and execution from day to day. But King Haakon still insists that we will not leave his Arctic capital as long as one inch of his country remains Norwegian. At this rate his memory may yet outlast and outshine those of his Viking namesakes of long ago. (New York Times, 25 May 1940)

He returned home from exile in 1945, a much admired person. There is a statue of him in central Bodø as well.

The rebuilding of Bodø would continue until 1959. Many complain that the architecture of the city is drab and does not inspire enthusiasm. This is perhaps true; however, when there are upwards of 5,000 homeless people to take care of before grueling winters aesthetics are not the priority. It is true that the churches and public buildings suffer from the same malady. Yet, given the circumstances and the time period when reconstruction occurred, the architecture makes sense. To the skeptic I urge an examination beyond the public buildings. Many of the homes in and around Bodø are fashionable and practical. The only shame is that the prewar Bodø was so thoroughly devastated.

First impressions of Bodø

This is my first time above the Arctic Circle and I am very excited.

Bodø might be the opposite of what many people consider “European travel.” It is not old. The town was granted township status in 1816. More than that, the town was completely destroyed in 1940 during the Second World War and subsequently rebuilt (more about this in a future post). Thus, there is no walking around looking at fine old architecture and ancient monuments. Since it is above the Arctic Circle, café life is limited. Nevertheless, National Geographic Explorer listed Bodø as its top destination for 2013. The town is surrounded by dramatic mountains and the sea. It is a beautiful outpost, the northern terminus of the Norwegian train system, where tourists come to explore.

There is a midnight sun in Bodø; I stayed up until 1 a.m. my first night just to make sure. The sun rises on 2 June and sets on 10 July. It was, I sheepishly admit, one of the things I was looking forward to experiencing. Once you are here, it is a little disconcerting because there is a temptation to have meals later and I never quite feel ready to go to bed, even though I have been very tired from walking.

Bodø has a population of roughly 48,000. The people have been reserved, but not unfriendly. On my walks I have noticed a slight cultural difference. On small roads where drivers yield to walkers and cyclists, an exchange of waves would be in order in the United States. In Bodø there is rarely an acknowledgement between the two. Drivers go out of their way to stop at crosswalks for pedestrians, even if you are several feet from it. Just a sense that you might cross the street will elicit a stop from most drivers.  

Bodø from Nyholm's Redoubt  

One of my first destinations upon arrival was the Nyholms Skandse (Nyholm’s Redoubt). This small fort was built in 1810 to protect grain shipments into Bodø during the Napoleonic Wars. Since Denmark/Norway had sided with the French, Britain tried to impose a blockade on the entire coast of Norway. After the war, the fort fell into disuse, but now serves as a destination for bird watching, fishing and picnics. It offers an excellent view of Bodø from across the harbor. While there, I virtually had the fort to myself.

The walk to the Fort was interesting, if not beautiful. Bodø is an actual working down, and its wealth and population was built on industry and fishing. Along the way to the fort I passed a foundry, making manhole covers and grates for sewer drains, several quarries and (what I believe was) a seafood manufacturing plant. It is surprising to learn how many sardine tins come from Bodø. It made me wonder if any my father ate when I was a kid was from this area.

The weather has not been what I expected. Shortly before I arrived I had consulted a forecast that suggested highs in the mid-60s (Fahrenheit). I realize that this is the Arctic, but the tourism pictures and the materials I read on the internet suggested that June was the perfect month to visit. I had idyllic visions of climbing sun drenched mountains or sitting on rocks along the water to write in my journal…a comfortable respite to the three Hs of home (hazy, hot and humid). But I have not been so fortunate yet. When I left for my walk Saturday morning the temperature was 48°F (this is in line with a Norwegian newspaper report that suggested a low of 8°C or 47°F on Saturday). The wind was howling at a consistent 30km/h (18 mph). My eyes were watering for much of my walk, especially when I was walking in a direction toward the sea. Nevertheless, I pressed on. Patches of blue skies to the west, with the sun shining over distance islands were tantalizing and raised my hopes for better weather to come.  

The good news was that the weather did get a little better, but the sun was intermittent and not very warming (again, it is the Arctic). Despite this, my first hours in Bodø have proven to be interesting and educational. The town is undergoing a construction phase and the vista of the waterfront is being reshaped. Many people (including locals) have complained that the architecture is not very impressive and boring; however, once you understand the reasons it makes more sense. While the public buildings date from the 1950s, I have become enamored with several homes, which are more interesting.

Endangered Species

They are still around, but one has to wonder for how much longer. In an era of mobile phones, emails and social media, how long will public telephones and post (mail) boxes continue to exist? Both of these symbols of Britain, usually painted red, are recognizable to citizens and travelers alike. Increasingly though I have noticed that many telephone boxes are empty shells, devoid of telephones. In Britain some telephone boxes might be around for a long time simply because they are iconic and tourist love to take pictures. But what of the long term? Will public telephones be confined to museums?

This trend raises a question: How many public pay telephones are used around the world these days? And, who exactly are using these phones? (I cannot tell you the last time I used a pay phone or how much a telephone call might cost…in any country.)

Since I have been in Scotland during this trip, the telephone boxes do remind me of the great Scottish film, Local Hero (1983). In the film an oil executive desperately wants to maintain connections with his life back in Houston while he is on a business trip to Scotland. He uses the payphone in a small Scottish town to keep himself “connected” to his friends, only to find that he has a real connection with local townsfolk. The film was popular enough that many people actually traveled to the town of Pennan just to see the phone booth from the film. We might suppose that the mobile phone makes us feel more connected; however, as with the spirit of the film, I have my doubts.

Post boxes, perhaps, have a longer life ahead of them. I find it paradoxical that the older hardware (post boxes) will likely survive the “newer” technology (but I digress). It seems that there has been a drop in “snail mail” but I reckon that there will continue to be a need to physically send materials for the foreseeable future. Post boxes in Britain (and Ireland) carry historical references on their sides. The old style receptors have the initials of the reigning monarch on the side. In Ireland, which was a part of the British Empire until 1922, there are still a number of old post boxes that carry the initials of late nineteenth or early twenty century monarchs. The difference is that the Irish boxes got a coat of green paint rather than the traditional red.

Irish Post Box from the George VI era

Post Box from the Victoria Era

Perhaps all of this is nostalgia, but it does make me think of the changing aspects of travel, communications and the world. 

Ireland’s Neutrality and the North Shore Bombings

I was having difficulty finding my destination for the morning. I walked into the offices of Marino College. I could tell that the man in the security/reception booth had sized me up and determined I did not belong there. I asked if he could direct me to the bombing memorial. There was an instant flash of recognition on his face and he understood why I was there. He gently smiled and said, “You’re at the wrong Marino College.” He asked if I was on foot (which I was). He gave me very good directions to get to the memorial, which I had passed along the way. “You will begin to feel a slight rise underneath your feet. When you reach the top of the hill, the garden will be down just a little, on the left side of the road,” he said. 

My goal on this cool drizzly morning was to find the memorial to those who died in the German bombing of North Dublin in May 1941. There is some question as to whether it was inadvertent or not. During the Second World War the government of Éamon de Valera had a foreign policy position of absolute neutrality; however, Republic of Ireland fire brigades had been assisting in Belfast. The outbreak of the war came just seventeen years after Irish independence and two years after the new constitution established a Republic. The new Republic forced Britain to relinquish its naval bases on its territory. Several authors have argued that Ireland’s policy was, in part, based upon the personal animosity between de Valera and British Prime Minister Winston Churchill.  

Several stray bombs had fallen on the Republic of Ireland prior to the North Shore incident. It is worth remembering that the six counties of Northern Ireland (part of the United Kingdom) were heavily involved in the war. In the early morning hours of 31 May 1941, a number of bombs from German airplanes fell on houses in northern Dublin, specifically in and around the North Shore Road area. As a result twenty-eight people were killed and ninety were injured; many more people were left homeless as well. Compared to what was happening across the continent, it may appear that this was a minor incident; however, for those who were the victims it had to be a traumatic event. Ireland was not at war; there was no warning or protection. Average Irish citizens experienced for a few terrifying hours what the Irish Independent referred to as “this horrendous war.”

As was the case elsewhere, tales of what happened in the aftermath are interesting. The Irish Independent related two short stories that offered tantalizingly specific information:

At 8:45 a.m., on Saturday, Miss Behan and Miss Hoey, who resided in 157 North Strand Rd., were rescued alive having been trapped in their home for just seven hours. Before their rescue stimulants were administered to them by Dr. Pringle. (Irish Independent, 2 June 1941)

In another vignette, the newspaper offered a little levity about the tragedy:

It was nearly two hours before the man trapped in the N.C.R. house was dug out. He was exhausted, and his first request was for a cigarette before he was taken to the hospital. (Irish Independent, 2 June 1941)

All the contemporary newspaper accounts (that I have read thus far) offered glowing praise for public officials and rescue services that responded to the bombing. The Irish Press did note the work of private citizens as well in rescuing and helping one another.

In the ruins of one of the houses rescue workers formed a human chain to extricate four people from under the fallen masonry, lifting them from hand to hand to the roadway, while demolition squads worked on the threateningly dangerous walls of shattered buildings beside them. (Irish Press, 31 May 1941)

Ireland’s relationship with the Second World War has been difficult because of its neutrality. Although the North Shore Road bombing was out of the ordinary for the Irish, its memory has been obscured and overshadowed. The memorial was not erected until 1991; the monument was refurbished in 2011 (which is when I learned of its existence). It has been on this trip that I learned of the only Irish-born Jew to have been killed in the Holocaust, Ettie Steinberg; there were a handful of Irish sailors who suffered in German prison camps. Ireland’s stance during the war meant that it did not join the United Nations until 1955. Some Irish citizens did fight for Britain against Germany during the war. But those who did often face prejudice and discrimination after the war. It was just this past month that the government of Taoiseach Edna Kennedy issued a pardon on behalf of the country to those who fought against National Socialism. It is not often that memorials from the World War II era are found in Ireland and Dublin; however, the process of coming to terms with the aftereffects of the war has begun.

Remembering Poverty: Public Art in Dublin

Quite by accident, while on an exploration near Christ Church Cathedral, I stumbled upon a piece of public art that was brilliant in its simplicity. The exhibit, by Chris Reid, is located in and around Nicholas Street and consists of twenty bronze plaques. Each plaque, without explanation, gives a short snippet of an interview conducted by the artist with Dublin residents who lived near the block of buildings on Nicholas Street. The installation coincided with the refurbishment of the housing blocks. (Reid also published Heirlooms and Hand-me-downs as a part of the project as well.) 

While many of the plaques are interesting and moving, the first one I came across (which is photographed here) was so fascinating and compelling it prompted me to learn more. Without any immediate explanation, the stories drew me to read more and eventually find the explanation. Some of the plaques recall bleaker times and generally urge vigilance, through actions and attitude, to prevent a return to those times. 

Interesting Words – Part 2

The defenestration window (top) at Prague Castle

The word defenestration, the act of throwing someone or something out the window, is one of the most evocative words I know. It is a word with which you can impress your friends and family; or even be useful on a quiz program. Although I am not sure how the literal meaning of the word can be employed in everyday language, a more figurative version can mean to get rid of someone (or make them lose his/her job) in a very quick manner.  

For people who study international politics, the Second Defenestration of Prague on 23 May 1618 occurred at Prague Castle. The event precipitated the Thirty Years Wars and is considered a seminal event in European history. This series of wars between Catholics and Protestants wreaked havoc across the European continent and had lasting implications for decades (even centuries) to follow. For most scholars the treaty that ended the war, the Peace of Westphalia (1648), ushered in our current international order, which is marked by the existence of sovereign states and the desecularization of world politics.

Bobby

It is a cliché to say that the British love dogs. My earlier entry on Station Jim is a dog story that is rather obscure (and bizarre). A much more famous canine tale is that of Greyfriars Bobby in Edinburgh. The legendary story of Bobby is one of fidelity and faithfulness, which is why it probably has lasting appeal.

The story goes that Bobby’s master, a policeman by the name of John Gray, died in 1858 of tuberculosis. From the day of the funeral until the day Bobby died on 14 January 1872, the Skye terrier kept a vigil at his master’s grave site. Dignitaries from around Britain came to meet Bobby and later a drinking fountain was erected in his honor. Since that time books and films have been written to celebrate the terrier’s devotion to his master and duty, including the 1961 Disney film Greyfriars Bobby: The True Story of a Dog.

Ah, but this great story may not be quite what it appears. Naysayers note that there is evidence that the whole legend was cooked up to boost tourism along Candlemaker Row, the street where the statue now stands. In fact, there might have been a second dog to carry on the story after the original Bobby died. Frankly, seeing a dog lay upon a mound of dirt for days seems a little far-fetched; however, this is not to say it is impossible. What the legend points to is what we want to be true. We want dogs (and people) to be true and faithful companions. Thus, even if the story stretches the truth a little we will buy into the myth. The habits of dogs, unquestioned loyalty, is what we want in our friends and companions. 

Prestonpans

I was on my way to North Berwick for an afternoon of exploration and a possible visit to the Scottish Seabird Center. The train began to unexpectedly slow, we had just left a small station that I could not have said what was the name. I glanced up just in time to see a weather-worn monument on the right side of the train. It was seemingly in the middle of nowhere; a couple of farmhouses, but nothing much else. I tried hard to make out anything written on it, but despite our slow rate of travel time had ravished the monument making it difficult to read from a distance. The monument was destined to be a notation in my journal; another scrap of information unlikely to be pursued. The train crept along for another few minutes until an alarm sounded and it came to a complete stop.

An announcement soon came: There was a failed service ahead. This was one of the times when my understanding of the Scottish accent failed me. I thought the conductor said that there was a field service ahead. Were they working on the tracks? I had no idea that that may mean. Listening in on a few inquiries, and making one of my own, I determined what was happening. The train that left half an hour previously had broken down and we could not go around. We were to back up to the previous station, which I now learned was Prestonpans. The train would either let us disembark there to wait for the next train (which may or may not be soon depending on the removal of the disabled train) or we could return with the current train to Edinburgh. If we returned, the help station would make other arrangements for us. I was weighing my options when all of the sudden the monument once again passed before my window.

I decided to leave the train and explore the area. North Berwick would have to wait for another time. I ended up spending about two and half hours walking and exploring the area. It was a serendipitous afternoon, which will be chronicled elsewhere. Nevertheless, I managed to have an up-close inspection of the mysterious monument after all.

It turns out that the monument is dedicated to Colonel James Gardiner who died of injuries from the Battle or Prestonpans on 21 September 1745. The battle was the first major encounter of the Jacobin Rising of 1745. Mortally wounded, the Colonel was taken from the field and died in nearby Tranent. The memorial, which is currently in bad repair, was erected by public subscription in 1853.

Looking down on history

As mentioned, there are brass plaques that dot many European cities to denote the former residences of deported Jews. As travelers we sometimes only see a city at eye level, we do not pay attention what is below our feet or just above the ground level. I find this interesting because walking down many streets, our eyes are drawn to the ground floors of many buildings. I would suggest that this is no accident, advertisements bombard the eyes on the ground level. Yet, a quick glance just a few degrees up or down reveals another world completely. 

At Náměsti Republiky, a square quite near Prague’s Old Town Square, there is a combination of sites and experiences that leave one with a sense of irony. The most prominent feature of the square is the Obecni dum, perhaps one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. In front of the Obecni dum, looking to the left in the photograph below, there is a complex of buildings adjacent to one another. These three buildings I find very interesting because of the diversity of utility and prominence. On the ground in front of the small building to the extreme right is a small brass plaque that reads: “A stone house from the end of the 13th century originally stood on this corner.” It is unclear to me why every year I am in Prague I walk over to make sure the plaque is still there. Perhaps I secret wish that during the intervening year someone has posted more information about it: When was it torn down? Why was it torn down? What else is known about the house? What did it look like?

At the extreme left of the picture is the other side of time spectrum (sort of). The large pink building is the Palladium Shopping Center with over 200 shops. It is a modern and upscale mall that is actually pleasant to walk through. Although it looks thoroughly modern in all respects inside, the building is actually a refurbished 18th century army barracks. Among those who were stationed there was Josef Kajetantyl, the man who wrote the song that would become the Czech national anthem (“Where is My Home?”).

Situated between the Mall and the small building, recessed just enough with a small gate and wall in front, that it is hardly noticeable, is the Kostel sv. Josefa (Church of St. Joseph). My guess is that to the incurious pedestrian this small church remains unnoticed. Although some of the beggars that usually loiter in front might draw attention to it, they make the church more intimidating to visit. The interior of the church reveals a small baroque gem: plain white walls, with fixtures made of dark woods. There are several paintings, including Stations of the Cross and a large triptych over the main altar. The wood and the lesser altars are trimmed in gold. The floor is made of what looks like terrazzo with inlaid tiles for decorations.

The juxtaposition of modern and antique buildings, the sacred and the profane, and wealthy shoppers and tourists walking passed the downtrodden beggars of Prague is fascinating. This, in many ways, captures the spirit of Prague. I suspect this is not why most people come to Prague, but the differences keep me coming back.

British Colonial History

It is difficult to travel in Britain without seeing evidence of its colonial past. Just this week a British High court order that the United Kingdom should pay reparations for people tortured and abused during the Mau Mau rebellion. There is speculation that this will lead to more such cases. The legacy of British colonialism, from immigration to foreign policy, is ever present in the politics of today’s Britain.  

There is a statue that sits in the middle of North Bridge, a major thoroughfare in central Edinburgh, dedicated to the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. The inscription on the statue remembers the lives of those who fought in six campaigns between 1878 and 1902.  In light of the ruling this week, it was hard not to see the irony that the head of the lead officer on the memorial had been covered in seagull excrement. To be fair, this was not the only statue in central Edinburgh to have his head covered (there are not many women who have a statue), but it did catch my eye. 

Scottish Suffragette Societies

The building at 2 St. Andrews Square, in Edinburgh, was the headquarters of the Scottish Suffragette Societies. It is quite probable that had I not walked past the sign on the day I did I might not have remembered a bigger connection. As I glanced up and saw the unobtrusive sign, I remembered an article I had read a few days before in The Guardian commemorating the one hundredth anniversary of a key event in women’s suffrage in Britain. Protesting for women’s suffrage, Emily Davison, on 1 June 1913, stepped in front of the King’s horse during the Epson Derby and was fatally injured. There is a debate among historians today as to whether she intended to disrupt the race or commit suicide to draw attention to the cause. Some doubt that she wanted to commit suicide because a return ticket was found in her pocket after her death. Whatever the case, Davison death was a seminal event in British political history.

The women’s suffrage movement in London has been well documented; however, less attention has been paid to the Scottish movement. Without research, very little would be gleaned from the simple plaque that adorns the building. In a city filled with statues and memorials, the significance of women’s suffrage has yet to be recognized.

At a different location on the building, another plaque notes that the building also housed the offices of the Scottish Women’s Hospitals for Foreign Service, a private organization that provided nursing and relief work during the First World War. Although the government considered a similar scheme to allow women to serve as nurses during the war, it was ultimately rejected. Nevertheless, as noted at the dedication of the memorial, many woman from the Scottish Women’s Hospitals both provided an invaluable and heroic service and several members died during the war.  

Update (posted 9 July 2013):

For more about the life and death of Emily Davison, see Marina Warner’s article in the London Review of Books. 

The Psychology of Brass Plaques

An interesting feature of several Central European countries is the use of brass plaques on the cobblestones outside housing blocks. They are barely noticeable to most; they tend to look like markers for water and sewer lines. I assume that most people, especially tourists, walk past them without notice. In fact these small brass placards, in cities like Berlin, Prague and Budapest, provide enticingly small bits of information about former residents of the flats, specifically Jews who once lived in the building, were deported and ultimately murdered in concentration camps. Sometimes the information is exceedingly, and frustratingly, sparse; perhaps inexact birth dates or partial names. Nevertheless, all the plaques end with the same fate – death in a concentration camp.

On my visits to Central Europe I have been instinctively drawn to seek out these little markers. I am not sure why, but I have been photographing them the last few years. When you get back to the hotel (or even return home), it is difficult to remember where exactly I took the picture. There is probably some psychological reason why I would think it necessary to do this. It is almost too trite to say that I am perpetuating the memory of the victims, but perhaps that is what I am doing.

In thinking about what I do with the information collected I am not sure. What is there to say that has not been written, more eloquently and poignantly that I could ever hope to express? Instead, I thought I would seek out a few of these markers on each trip and post them here with a few observations about the names, information and locations.

Xantenerstrasse 5, Berlin

Ingeborg Gassenheimer (d. 26 Feb 1943, Auschwitz)

Max Weiss (d. 20 May 1944, Theresienstadt)

Else Weiss (died in Auschwitz)

Margit Reichl (d. 19 Nov 1943, Theresienstadt)

Hermine Kalamár (d. 21 Jul 1944, Theresienstadt)

Lucie Noack (d. 8 Sep 1942, Riga)

Martha Friedländer (d. 8 Jul 1942, Theresienstadt)

Oswald Friedmann (d. 15 Apr 1942, Riga)

Senovážné nám 20, Prague

Rudolf Klein (d. 1945, Auschwitz)

Zděnka Abeles Kleinová (d. 1945, Auschwitz)

Obviously there was no mercy for anyone; however, it stunning to understand the tragedy when one considers individual stories. Margit Reichl was 70 years old when she was deported, she lived just four and a half months in Theresienstadt; Martha Friedländer was 83 years old and lived less than two weeks. Rudolf Klein was a doctor. We often hear that six million Jews died; but what should be noted is that such large numbers are nearly impossible for the human brain to consider. Considering the lives of individuals who were killed makes the tragedy much more personal and intimate. It allows us to consider questions such as: What threat did 83 year women pose to the government (or anyone)?  

As tragic as the deaths were (and still are), life must have been extremely difficult under the circumstances. Perhaps death offered a release. I often think about a statement written by Herman Kruk, a prisoner in Vilnius Ghetto, recorded in the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe:

What is my life worth even if I remain alive? Whom to return to in my old hometown of Warsaw? For what and for whom do I carry on this whole pursuit of life, enduring, holding on – for what?

Memorial to the Martyrs of the Deportation

France has, in recent years, tried to come to terms with the collaboration of citizens during the German occupation of the Second World War. The events in Paris during the Vel d’Hiv Roundup, have only recently been told to a wider audience thanks in part to the book and film Sarah’s Key.  If you are not familiar with the events, Jews were rounded up by the occupying German forces with the help of local French police. Those who were detained were kept at the Vélodrome d’Hiver (Winter Velodrome), a venue for the 1924 Olympic Games, under appalling conditions. The main round up came on 16-17 July 1942 after officials were careful to avoid the uncelebrated Bastille Day (14 July) in order to avoid any possible spontaneous protests infused with nationalism. (See this New York Times article as well.) Despite the difficulty in coming to terms with collaboration of several French people, President Charles De Gaulle commissioned this memorial in 1962. 

The memorial is located at the tip of Île de la Cité, just behind Notre Dame Cathedral and adjacent to the bridge to Ile Saint-Louis. It is an interesting location; prominent, if not immediately obvious. Location is important, and placing the memorial behind one of the primary tourist location of the city, if not the continent, is an important message. My only complaint (with myself): the last two times I have spent time in Paris have been on Mondays, the only day of the week that the memorial is not open. 

Adenauerplatz

There is a small statue of Konrad Adenauer on the square that takes his name in western Berlin. He was an interesting man who was mayor of Cologne during the interwar years and lost his position when Nazis came to power in 1933. Despite being a conservative, he declined to support Hitler and National Socialism. He was arrested and threatened with deportation from time to time. After the Second World War he became the first chancellor of Germany under the Bonn Republic in 1949, a post in which he would serve until 1963 when he was 87 years old.

I often stay near Adenauerplatz when I am in Berlin these days. Consequently, it is not uncommon to walk through the square when I am catching a u-bahn or exploring neighborhoods. This year’s stay was particularly poignant for me.  My friend, John Adams, gave me a substantial biography of Adenauer from his library as a gift a few years ago. His work as a reporter, and his interest in Germany, meant that he had a keen interest in Germany. He admired Adenauer quite a bit and we had several conversations about him and Germany in general. John passed away this past December after a battle with melanoma. As I passed Adenauer’s statue the other day while on a walk, I smile and thought wryly of John. Although I have been aware of Adenauer’s importance to post-war Germany history and politics, I am grateful for John’s insights and conversation.

Churches in Brugge

Bruges (or Brugge in Flemish) is famous for its medieval architecture, especially its churches. Among the more famous the Church of Our Lady has one of the few sculptures of Michelangelo that is housed outside of Italy; the Basilica of the Holy Blood, which regularly features a veneration of the relic that is said to be the blood of Jesus, is very popular among tourists. What peaks my curiosity is some of the other churches in Bruges that are not as popular among tourists. Many have interesting architecture and even more beautiful artwork inside. It is disappointing when some of these so-called minor churches are not open to travelers. The lack of access only fuels my interest.

Unidentified Church in Bruges

On a recent trip to Bruges I found this church, on Nieuwe Gentweg, which appears to be abandoned and in disuse. Despite some initial investigations, I have been unable to identify the name of the church or any other information. While it appears to be of some interest in terms of architecture, it is far enough off the tourist path it probably did not benefit from regular donations from those wandering in. The simple stained glass windows and declining state of repair beckoned me to further investigation. It appears that the church has been empty for some time now, and cracked window panes and boarded up doors lend an air of decline. Sadly, for now, my curiosity goes unfulfilled.