Tag Archives: telephone

Pasternak, Mandelstam, and Stalin: was the pen mightier than the sword?

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LIFE IN STALIN’S Russia was extremely precarious for writers. One small mistake could lead to imprisonment and/or assassination. This was also the case in Enver Hoxha’s Albania, as the country’s famous author Ismail Kadare (1936-2024) knew only too well.

In 1934, the author Boris Pasternak (1890-1960) is widely believed to have received an unexpected telephone call from no lesser person than Russia’s dictator Joseph Stalin. What Stalin said to Pasternak and how Pasternak replied is the subject of a novel, “A Dictator Calls”, published in 2022 and written by Ismail Kadare. The author convincingly demonstrates that nobody can recall what was said during this brief but significant telephone conversation that occurred in 1934. Kadare provides 13 versions of what might have happened during this three-minute telephone call. At one point, he questions whether the call ever happened, but I felt after reading the book that it was likely to have happened.

A common theme amongst the 13 recollections of this telephone call is that Stalin was calling to find out Pasternak’s views on the poet Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938).  At the time of the call, Mandelstam, who had recently written a poem critical of Stalin, was in prison. It seems from what Kadare has written in his novel, which is based on facts (such as they are), that Stalin might have been hoping the Pasternak would say something that might help save his fellow author, the poet Mandelstam. In this fascinating novel, I felt that Kadare was questioning whether omnipotent dictators like Stalin and Hoxha feared, possibly secretly, the power of critics such as the poet Mandelstam, or in the case of Albania, Kadare. As with so many of Kadare’s novels, this relatively new one gives the reader some insight into the nature of secrecy, the contortion of truth, and uncertainty, which prevailed in regimes such as Stalin’s Russia and Hoxha’s Albania. Although difficult to understand in places, “A Dictator Calls” is a fascinating novel, which kept me intrigued all the way through it.

Kadare’s novel has been translated from Albanian into English by John Hodgson. I feel that a good translation should read in such a way that one cannot realise that it is a translation. It should read as if it were originally written in the language into which it was translated. Hodgson has achieved this very successfully.

Once everyday objects, now souvenirs of times long past

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CLOSE TO POSTMANS PARK in the City of London, there are two restored items on the pavement of the street called St Martin’s Le Grand. One of these would have been commonly seen all over the City a few decades ago. The other is rarer.

One of the objects is a restored Police Call Post. Free to use, these slender items topped with a red, light signal could be used by members of the public to call a police station. If a police station wanted to call the policeman on the beat, the red light would flash to attract his (or her) attention. Fortunately, I never had cause to use this service. Designed and made in the early 1930’s by British Ericsson, these telephone posts were decommissioned in the 1960s because of the availability of mobile police radio transmitters and receivers. Most of these posts were sold during the 1980s, but eight remain in the City. These have been carefully restored by Rupert Harris Conservation Ltd, and are now protected heritage items. According to the company’s website (https://rupertharris.com/products/police-call-posts-1):

“A few examples of similar posts exist in Westminster and throughout the country, but those differ slightly in design and colour. The Westminster models bear a Royal crest above the front ‘POLICE POST’ panel, and are painted dark blue.”

Ony a  couple of days ago, I noticed one of the Westminster models at Piccadilly Circus outside of what was once the magnificent Tower Records shop.

Standing close to the Police Call Post near Postman’s Park, there is a Victorian post box (pillar box). Painted black rather than the usual red, it resembles other Victorian post boxes I have seen in London (e.g., on Ladbroke Grove) and in Fort Kochi (India). A plaque on the black post box (near the defunct Police Call Post) states that this kind of pillar box was designed by John Penfold in 1866, and that this particular example commemorated 500 years since Brian Tuke (1472-1545), the first Master of the Post, was knighted by Henry VIII in 1516. It stands outside the building that was the GPO’s headquarters from 1894-1984. Unlike its neighbour the Police Call Post, this venerable letter box is still in use. Within a short distance from the much-visited St Pauls Cathedral, these less well-known sights and the nearby Postmans Park (see: https://adam-yamey-writes.com/2023/05/21/self-sacrifice-remembered/) are well worth investigating

Chemistry

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Many people considered father to be charming, amusing, interesting, and kind, all of which he was.  Many women found him attractive and some of them became romantically involved with him, but only about two years after my mother died. I was pleased because these interactions appeared to elevate his mood.

One of the first serious relationships that I was aware of involved Dad and ‘M’, a former home help from Scandinavia, who had lived with us for at least two years back in the early 1960s. M lived in Scandinavia but visited Dad in London several times. Although I had liked her a great deal when she was looking after my sister and me, my opinion of her had muted considerably when I saw her again many years later whilst she was visiting Dad.

On one of her visits, my sister kindly drove Dad and M down to Brighton for the day. She said that the amorous couple sat in the rear of her Volkswagen ‘Beetle’ and hardly uttered a word either to each other or to my sister, who felt that she had become a chauffeur rather than a daughter.

Whenever I was staying at Dad’s home for the weekend, I used to hear him speaking to M on the ‘phone. I knew that he was talking to M because he spoke in a tone that differed from his normal one. One Sunday morning I was sitting in our living room after breakfast and could just about hear Dad speaking in this strange tone. When he had ended the call, Dad entered the living room, and said:

“You know, Adam, it’s always difficult breaking up with girlfriends.”

For a moment, I was lost for words. Then, I said:

“Well, Dad, I could not see that you and M had much in common.”

Walking towards the door, and pausing in the doorway, he turned to me and said: “That doesn’t matter. It’s chemistry, you know, Chemistry.”

Poetry on a wall

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Yesterday, Sunday the 15th of August 2021, we noticed an attractive wall painting not far from the large Liberty shop on Great Marlborough Street. It is the Soho Mural in Noel Street, the eastern continuation of Great Marlborough Street. With the title “Ode to the West Wind”, it was created in 1989 by Louise Vines and The London wall Mural Group, whose telephone number (on the circular blue patch) was then 01 737 4948 (now, the number would begin with 0207 instead of 01).

More information about this mural and its quote from the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley can be found at http://londonmuralpreservationsociety.com/…/ode-west-wind/

A recycled telephone kiosk

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RURAL TELEPHONE BOXES (kiosks) are often used (re-purposed) to house AED defibrillators and small book libraries. Occasionally, they still contain coin-operated telephones. We were driving through rural Cornwall between Bodmin and Luxulyan, when we took a wrong turn and drove along a small lane. After making a three-point turn, I spotted an old telephone box partly covered with vegetation. Its original glazed door had been replaced by a wooden one that was quite out of keeping with the box’s elegant design. The present owner of the telephone box has been using this as the entrance to his or her garden. I was pleased to make find this quirky modification of an old telephone kiosk.

Annoying and rude

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During the last few years that I practised dentistry, most of my patients brought mobile telephones into my surgery.

You would be surprised how many patients tried to answer their ‘phones when my fingers were in their mouths or their mouths were filled with impression (mold taking) material.

Worse still, were patients who were ‘texting’ constantly when I was trying to explain their treatment options to them.

Once, a patient arrived late, speaking on his mobile phone. He muttered to me that he was in the middle of a telephone job interview. I had no choice, but to let him continue. After half an hour, he told me he was ready for me. I told him that he had wasted my time and his appointment and had to book another one.

In the end, I put up a large sign in my surgery forbidding the use of mobile phones, which was rude and inconsiderate. This solved the problem because, to my surprise, most people obeyed it.

Press button A

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A and B_240

When I  first became aware of public telephone boxes – that would have been in the early 1960s – they operated as follows. The caller first inserted a suitable number of coins, and then dialled. If the call was answered, the caller had to press a button marked ‘A’ in order to continue the call. By pressing this button, the inserted coins moved into the cash box. If, on the other hand, the recipient of the call did not answer or was busy on another call, the caller had to press button ‘B’. By doing so, the inserted coins were returned.

The A and B call boxes were later replaced by another system. The caller dialled the number. If it was answered, the caller heard a series of beeps. At this point, the caller had to insert money in order to remain connected. Many years after this newer system was installed, my father used to yell down the ‘phone:

“Press button ‘A'”

He did this despite the fact that button ‘A’ no longer existed.

Today, with the advent of mobile telephones, mastering the intricacies of operating public telephone boxes has become almost unneccessary.

Essential accessories

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It is amazing how many things, which used to be done with two hands, are now done with only one hand. It worries me to watch a parent manoevering a child in a baby buggy off a bus or train literally single-handed, often while looking at a mobile ‘phone screen.

Why only one hand nowadays? The answer is simple. Many people seem incapable of going anywhere or doing anything if one hand does not hold a mobile ‘phone or maybe a bottle of water.  

Why is it necessary to be permanently attached to a ‘phone? It can be kept in a bag or pocket within easy reach thus freeing up the hand for more productive uses. 

And, what has happened to human metabolism that requires a bottle of water to be carried about? I might be old-fashioned, but several decades ago, nobody felt it essential to carry a personal water supply. Have we become more thirsty as a species, or what?

The simple life

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KILSHANNIG 76 Standing stone

 

A long time ago, I remember seeing an advertisement issued either by Aer Lingus or the Irish tourist board, which said:

“In Ireland, it rains every fifteen minutes for a quarter of an hour”

During my first visit to the Republic of Ireland (Eire) back in 1976, I stayed with some friends in their secluded country house far south of Dublin. Remote as it was, it had a telephone, but it was without a dial. To use the ‘phone, it was necessary to lift the receiver and then turn a small crank several times. This crank sent a signal to the operator at the exchange, who then connected you to the switchboard. Next, you told the operator which number you required, and he or she then tried to connect you.

One night, there was a fierce storm with much wind. On the morning following, one of our party wished to make a ‘phone call. After several attempts to alert the operator with the cranking mechanism, we concluded that the storm had damaged the line connecting the house to the exchange. We thought that it would take many days before this would be repaired. One of my friends suggested that we got in the car and followed the telephone line to discover how and where it was damaged.

Soon, we found the place where the problem had occurred. The wind had caused the two wires that led to the house to become tangled in the branches of the tree. One of my friends stood on the roof of our vehickle and using a long stick, a branch that had been brought down by the storm, managed to disentangle the wires. When we returned to the house, we discovered that the problem had been resolved. Life was so simple in those days!