Wednesday’s Wise Woman … Ginetta Sagan
Picture from Peaceful Heroes by Jonah Winter
Ginetta Sagan (1925-2000) was born Ginetta Moroni in Milan, Italy. Her Catholic father and Jewish Mother were doctors and active in the Italian resistance movement when World War II began. Although her parents were able to provide false papers for Ginetta to hide her Jewish roots; her father was shot by Mussolini’s Black Brigade and her mother died in Auschwitz.
At seventeen Ginetta was an active and courageous member of the Resistance; Though she was a tiny woman and so called Topolina (Little Mouse),she personally escorted 300 Jews and anti-fascists across the Italian border into Switzerland where they would find protection and freedom.
In 1945 Ginetta was betrayed by an informer and arrested by the Black Brigade and imprisoned. During the next forty five days she was beaten, raped and tortured and was going to be executed on the 23rd April. Then one day a prison guard threw a loaf of bread into her dark cell; hidden inside was a match box which contained a match and a note. Using the light from the match Ginetta was able to read the note which said ‘ Courage’ Later on the day she was due to be executed shes was taken from her cell by two armed Nazis. Ginetta’s captors turned out to be defectors collaborating with her resistance comrades; they took her to the safety of a Catholic hospital.
When Ginetta had recovered she lived in Paris with her godfather where she attended the Sorbonne.She continued to commit herself to the plight of people especially victims of torture and unfair imprisonment.
In 1951 she emigrated to America to study Medicine at the University of Chicago. Here she met and married Leonard Sagan they remained close companions until his death in 1997.
Meanwhile Ginetta, helped to build Amnesty International and started their first newsletter called Matchbox in honour the matchbox she had been given. Her aim was to give unfairly imprisoned people the same hope she had been given years before. Encouraging people to write letters not only to the prisoners but to their captors; requesting their release or at least humane treatment.
The story goes that the symbol of Amnesty International the candle wrapped in barbed wire, while it was not created by Ginetta, they were her ‘symbols.’ Ginetta always carried a piece of barbed wire that she had cut from the fence that divided Italy and Switzerland..
Not only did Ginetta work with Amnesty International but she also founded the Aurora Foundation which investigates and publicises incidents of human rights abuse.
100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups – Week#78
…what does it taste like…
Long before a hungry child asks ‘What does it taste like?’ He says “Will it fill my empty aching belly?’ Before we ask the same question we complain. ‘Is it ethical and organic?’ ‘Will it provide all my nutrients?’ ‘This will make me fat and raise my GI?’ ‘Is it pork, beef, lamb or horse and been injected with unnecessary hormones, drugs or inedible implants?’ ‘Has it been kept at the optimum temperature?’ ‘Has it gone past its sell by date? How many calories? Do I get two for one?’ ’Do we perhaps ask too many questions?
Weekly Photo Challenge … Kiss
Before I rant about my lack of kisses in my life; I thought I had better make sure I knew the meaning of the word ‘kiss’.
It means ‘a caress with the lips’ ‘caress’ means ‘a fondling action’
Which means I was not exposed to such a thing as a child. Such behaviour was not seen or encouraged until we had guests to tea. These were usually Aunts and Uncles making an annual visit around Christmas, birthdays or holiday time. Then we would have to perform this act like pros! Then with red faces, we politely if not a little clumsily made a hurried exit off stage!
Needless t say I did get the hang of it; but thereafter preferred more than a degree of privacy.
Until I met my boyfriend’s parents, who were to become my in-laws and had delusions of grandeur and aspired to the French culture. This rather unattractive misdemeanor unfortunately for me extended beyond the cuisine and wine.
I am careful to say they also indulged in the European style of greeting, note that I did not say French kissing. Apparently the tradition is ‘twice on alternate cheeks for friends’ and ‘four times for family’. Once I got used to the former I was exposed to the later! Even after the initiation I was often incline to lose count or attempt to start on the wrong cheek so I often knocked off spectacles or bump noses.
So suffice to say to say, that this kissing malarkey was not the tender touch of lips as described in the Shorter English Dictionary and the least said the better.
The Kiss a statue in Puc University Rio de Janeiro
Last year I learned that …
It pays to be a little prepared; last year while in Brazil, I had not yet begun posting to my blog daily. Which was just as well because the internet connection could not be relied upon.
However, it was soon after I returned home with a raft of new material; I felt confident enough to post more frequently. But in the UK I have all the facilities and applications that make it easy to post daily.
Although things on the ‘communication’ front in my daughter’s home in Babilonia with WiFi etc have improved, I am not sure with my ‘all singing and all dancing’ tablet and camera it will be as convenient as I hope.
Nonetheless I am going to attempt to post daily; trying to keep in the theme of books, library and life.I will not I am sure run out of images and motifs that will fit the bill. Without of course missing out on the holiday atmosphere.
Our dear hosts will have a well planned an itinerary with the lots suitable sites, dotted with eating and resting holes. All these can be well documented as I go with notebook and camera. Also, with our new found knowledge and a stash of guides such as the Rough Guide and Lonely Planet we too can make a valid contribution to the day trips.
I am hoping also to go back to places that we enjoyed last year.
I enjoyed the book shops; huge architectural ‘delights’ that remain from the previous ruling regime, cool and dimly lit. Each with its individual ‘genre’ one I remember sold for a fraction of its original price, back numbers of glossy magazines; piled neatly in rows all in alphabetical and date order. A sleepy cat stretched on a sunny ledge, yawned and wandered off when disturbed. At the back of the shop in a cool and quiet corner was a coffee shop where customers could relax a while, before venturing out into the hot and dusty street,
The Art Galleries were as expected grand and stately; comparable to those we have in London ; cool and peaceful but for me without inside knowledge were a little alien. I have now researched; a little and uncovered some artists and illustrators I would like to look at more closely. So I will feel a little more comfortable .
Of my generation there are artists such as Antonio Manuel, Artur Barrio, Cildo Meireles and Lygia Clark all influenced by the dictatorship and went on to became involved in the counter-cultural movement that continued after during 1960s-1970s in Brazil and particularly Rio de Janeiro.
I have discovered one illustrator or rather my daughter pointed him out; Alves Pinto Ziraldo; again he was part of the cultural changes after the dictatorship when he launched the first Brazilian comic; The class of Perer and the Quibbler a newspaper for adults. Not only is he admired by all ages in Brazil his books have been translated in most modern languages and he know has international acclaim He definitely should have a place in my gallery of Children’s illustrators that I have researched of late.
I have not been able to find books about any of these in English but the WWW has proved useful, although the translation is poor at times. So I am looking forward to revisiting the art galleries and bookshops for which Rio is renowned with a tiny bit more information. However would like more information about the above mentioned artists and where I can find exhibitions of their work.
Silent Sunday …
This weekend’s Trifecta Writing Challenge is 33 words on Hyperbole
The reader broke the stillness when she dropped the book with a crash. The others shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife; until the silence reigned again.
Saturday and the advent of the trip to Rio …
Today marks the advent of our trip to Brazil; in 4 weeks time we visit our daughter and her partner in Rio. It is a year since seeing her and our last visit so it is going to be a very happy reunion.
Looking back over the last year can be likened to looking at a masterpiece in the National Gallery or the feeling one has when finishing the final chapters of a gripping tale. The mind is awash with images of all the emotions conceivable; and the brain finds a way to balance and untangle the messages and dispense a valid opinion; Good book or bad? Painting, wonderful or not? Has the year been a success or failure? Or indeed somewhere in between?
Of course the result can only be assessed moment by moment and I tell you some moments and often for days the feelings were total despair especially during family festivals; like Christmas and the New Year when the empty space seemed so vast and I thought the world would end.
My daughter tells me as it is; good or bad with a traumatic thrust she would unload her troublesome monkey. Then she carries on her life without a care or so it seems. While I doggedly carry the weight of the accumulated despair. Each problem becomes enlarged and attaches itself directly or indirectly to the last. So you get the picture; a mother and daughter relationship across the Atlantic Ocean is not a bed of roses.
Or is it?
I have had more intimate conversations about a skein of silk, a pearl button, a statue on the beach at Ipanema or indeed a vast array of unconnected Brazilian joys than 100 mothers might have in a lifetime. The postman has brought unexpected parcels smothered with a patchwork of postage stamps containing exotic snippets of Rio de Janeiro and poems of love. My daughter heaped me with words of Cecilia Meireles. Elizabeth Bishop and Clarice Lispector and more; so I will never be alone.
Moment by moment a journey or expedition to the work, the beach, into the city or merely to the kitchen to make a pot of tea in either country is monitored between mobile phones; snapshots of life and love span the airways in a flurry of richness and joy. So patchwork quilt seems a good allegory; there are some bittersweet images in each richly embroidered patch …
As I prepare for this oncoming day I will relish every moment as if it were my last. As I have attempted to allow each retched lonely moment ‘to be’ … then the next few weeks I am going to wallow in expectancy with love.
Friday’s Library Snapshot
From Mr. Punch’s Railway Book
This item was retrieved for a reader this week, It is a fine example of English wit and humour, illustrated by Phil May (1864-1903) I know little about it. However it raised much interest and it will be exhibited in March … so its history and provenance will I hope by then will be discovered.
cvcxcx
Trifecta: Week Sixty-Four … Dwell
I work in a library; to dwell would not perhaps be an attractive notion. Books, having a lot to say would be good company; but the subject matter might be dry. The hefty tomes would not make good bedfellows.
However, the books do dwell in me and my colleagues, not quite 24/7 but certainly from 9-5, five days a week. The cataloguer liaises with academics and students, trawls catalogues, explores exhibitions and data bases. She exposes the subject matter to the ‘fine tooth comb,’ and her ‘eye for detail’ while she mulls over the Dewy Decimal System to exact the best classification. Then, she gloriously fills the shelves with gleaming delights to maintain the needs of the academic world.
I, a library assitant more in contact with the elderly and incunable. Caring more for the welfare and security of many books some over 500 years old. Each day, precious items arrive from more recent times; finding their way to our perfect preserving conditions. Where they can be observed in congenial and gentle atmosphere and not subjected to the hustle and bustle of a the public thoroughfare.
While their subject matter goes above my head I can absorb their aesthetic qualities. An early tome with fine wood engravings, a pleasing font, with rich illuminations. Protected with a hand tooled leather binding barely marked by its previous centuries. Not to mention, the exotically marbled end-papers, this secret method of decorating paper that originated in the Far East, would be a sin. I still delight in the touch of gilt edged finely milled paper.
Some less attractive items can excite a jaded mind. Reading, in recent times became a ‘popular’ pastime not only for the landed few. The books became smaller, accessible and less ornate a ‘Yellowback’ for instance; a cheap and usually a sensational novel sold in yellow board or paper covers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries always a delight to add one of these ‘disposables’ to our growing collection…
Alphabe Thursday M is for Moon
How the moon began ; a tale of Grimm adapted by James Reeves & Edward Ardizzone
Orlando the marmalade cat ; goes to the moon by Kathleen Hale
The moon on my left by Caryl Brahms
Since beginning the Alphabe Thursday I have collected several alphabet books especially those with notable illustrators. I recently found one called A is Amazing; poems about feelings edited by Wendy Cooling and illustrated by Piet Grobler.
L for Lonely featured a poem by James Carter calle the Moon speaks
I, the moon would like it known
I never follow people home.
I simply do not have the time.
And neither do I shine.
For what you often see at night is me reflecting solar light.
And I’m not made of cheese!
No, none of these:
No mozzarellas, cheddars, bries,
All you’ll find here if you please-are my empty seas.
And cows do not jump over me.
Now that is lunacy!
You used to come and visit me.
Oh, do return,
I’m lonely, see.
I and my children have experienced separation. During one particularly difficult time my son hoped that the moon he was seeing during the night was also looking down at me. I assured him this was right and this made things a little better. He now has children of his own and probably doesn’t remember this insecurities of old.
For me however it was a revelation that the moon was not shining and we were not seeing the same reflecting solar light!
Oh dear the man in the moon was such a comfort!
Astronomy with an opera-glass by Garrett P. Serviss
Coat Hanger Doll's House 
