Greg Dinner is a novelist, produced screenwriter, He settled in London from the US in 1984. Greg’s third novel A Requiem For Hania, set in Warsaw from the early 1940s Ghetto to 2010, was published to acclaim in 2022. Two earlier novels, A Murmuration of Starlings and Narcissus in Utero were originally developed for television. His current project, Fragments, a novel work-in-progress, somewhat follows-on from A Requiem For Hania taking the reader from 1870s Russia to 2020s Poland and Jerusalem. Greg has lived in County Clare since 2015 with his wife Annie, a blue-eyed collie and several half-mad chickens.
Excerpt from “Fragments”: A Novel (work in progress)
Liubar, Zhytomyr Oblast
1873-1891
It was hardly a surprise when Tanl’s mother then decided to sell the mill. Tanl also had his own dreams to pursue, his own plans. Unlike my own, his would not fall by the wayside, not then, not in the future foretold. Tanl was always right: I was not in his image. And sometimes a shadow such as I was clearly destined to be must but disappear into the bright light and heat of the sun. So it was. Tanl decided to go to Volozhin, to live with his grandfather and attend the school there. He had come to the conclusion that he would be a poet, a writer, a scholar. Tanl had bigger fish to catch than those that landed on the banks of our overblown river in springtime, and he would catch them.
The day he left, as I watched him pack his small bag, he looked over at me for a long moment, then reached up to the shelf where the fiddle we both had never mastered rested, the first layer of dust beginning to form.
–You take it, Tanl said. I want you to have it. I don’t want you to stop.
I protested, honestly I did, but Tanl was insistent. He had told his mother he wanted to give the fiddle to me, as a gift, as a hope for the future. She did not object. And I relented because some dreams I wanted to hold onto. No gift, no artifact so beautiful, would mean as much to me. True, it had little value to most, but to me, it measured worth in hope.
Tanl shook my hand when he left. He promised a lifetime of a friendship that would never wane. He promised he would return.
We parted as friends. We parted as brothers. He gently hit my shoulder. I’ll send for you, he promised.
He has promised, I hoped, quietly. Shadows too can hope.
He promised, but such was empty, as I knew it would likely be.
I never saw Tanl again.
*
The work in the tannery diminished me, drawing me back not to boyhood, but to indifference in the world, to a loss of hope. Without the hope that I relied on Tanl to instill, I became little more than the hides I pulled: dried, empty, lifeless. At the end of the week the owner paid me my measly sum, duly passed onto Tateh, my father. We both had to eat.
When I held enough roubles in my palm, I made my way back to the karchma, the tavern, passing kopeks to the fleshly palm of the shenk, the tavern owner, for the few drinks I could afford. I no longer glanced furtively but longingly at the shenk’s daughter. I came to accept that a shadow would never find light in the shining star that she had been for me. Instead I sat in a corner, drank as long as the kopeks held, ignored by the travelers who appeared, disgusting some with the smell I always carried with me. The smell of the tannery. The smell, is must be said, of death.
One evening after a particularly long day, I sat silently in my usual corner, noting the worry on the shenk’s face as he paced up and down, and the harsh words he had with his wife. And I noted the quiet conversation that then ensued between both of them and their daughter. His wife shook her head, unhappy. But the daughter spoke forcefully, nodding more than once towards my corner, towards the shadow cowering there. Towards me. I glanced up. I quickly glanced down, staring into the little that remained in my glass. I had rarely known fear, but now I felt fear. Had the stink of the tannery on me finally overwhelmed the karchma? Did the shenk’s daughter make up stories that my glances I had thought so unseen had offended, grown too lascivious, become far too improper for a Jewish one-time cheder boy to make and thus I should be thrust out on my ear?
I started to stand, planning my imminent escape, planning to run, even as the shenk started in my direction. I was fast. He, despite his age, was faster. I wanted to run. He ordered me to sit.
–My daughter knows you, he pronounced. Her friends have told her who you are. That your father is one of our most esteemed tailors in the shtetl. And she tells me you are a fiddler as well as a… a tanner.
Words, as usual, failed me. I have never been one for words. I had always tried to leave that to Tatl, always feeling that the poetry of his heart and mine were joined as one. I said nothing.
–I have a proposal. You fiddle for me. In exchange, you drink. Within reason, of course.
I stared at him. I stared at his wife, who had an expression of distaste, then turned away. And I stared, only briefly, over at his daughter. She was watching me with curiosity, and I swear she nodded at me. I swear.
I felt my heart miss a beat. I felt my loins shudder. I felt my need. I felt the slightest tremor of—hope.
–Within reason, yes?
I nodded. I agreed.
*
The dust had gathered on the face of the fiddle, that precious gift bequeathed by my Tanl. I so wished he could have been there to urge me forward. My voice would only find itself the short distance from our shtetl, the voice of my own precious left first finger racing over my own precious fiddle, my kleh.
So every evening I ran from the tanner’s yard after completing my work and hurried into the hollow of the forest that I declared as my own to practice, to remember, to seek harmony in nature and harmony with the racing movement of the kleh’s bow. I convinced myself that I improved with each passing moment. I convinced myself that even the birds and forest animals listened with rapture and amazement.
Oh yes, I lied.
After the week was over, a week I should add of not a single drop of alcohol passing my lips, I made my way to the karchma filled with with nerves jangling and tears just in the recesses of my eyes ready to fall when required, with a belly in knots and yes, I admit it, with my loins still hot, knowing I would see her again, praying she would fall beneath the spell of composition and the notes of wonder.
A crowd had gathered. Some drank. Some were drunk. I saw the shenk urge me onward. I saw the shenk’s wife mutter a prayer beneath a scowl. I saw the shenk’s daughter, who again I swear nodded at me before turning away, feigning indifference. And as for the customers in the tavern, few cared, or cared to listen, as I put the fiddle to my breast, my most precious left first finger poised above the string to race along from night to day and back again, the bow, that wondrous messenger, raised high, then lowered, then drawn, then… then the music. The song. My own poetry. My need. My art. My heart.
It could have been worse. It certainly could have been better. The music touched few, but offended none. That crowd, listening only to their own arguments, stories, negotiations, laughter, the ears were too otherwise engaged to be offended. At least not much. My left-hand fingers all most precious now raced on the fiddle as it was an extension of my life. As if it was her. Thus my heart lifted, and I dared to dream. And I survived the night, mostly because fiddle or no, music or no, shadows rarely offend.
When it was over, when it had passed, when the tears did not appear from the depths but remained haltered behind my eyes in silence and acceptance, when I sat with two drinks rather than a single before me, when the shenk’s daughter had long since retired to somewhere only my imagination might create in vision, I looked up to see the tavern owner standing before me.
He sighed. Shrugged. Stared at the customers, none of whom had tried to beat me, or more importantly him, for the aural intrusion, looked back at me.
–You’ll do.
So once a week I made the journey to the tavern outside our shtetl. Once a week I pulled my most prized fiddle from the bag where I kept it. Once a week my right hand made its way plucking and bowing the songs that had been popular amongst the Jews of the shtetl, and beyond. Perhaps not well, but with my most beloved left hand first finger leading my three other most beloved fingers my hand thus spoke the words of music that I could speak from my mouth. I played with my heart, and the occasional quiet glance in the direction of she who meant the flutters in my shadowed heart.
*
It so happened that on one such night I thought I played particularly well, indeed supported by the occasional shouts of approval amongst the larger than normal congregation. An occasional clap on the shoulder was gratefully received. Even moreso were the few glasses of the shenk’s almost finest set before me as I sat back down in my corner, my cheeks red from exhaustion, drink and that feeling of hope that once again encouraged my loins. I looked around for the true object of my desire, but she was nowhere to be seen.
As I sat the shenk came over to compliment me, holding a bottle in which remained not a few drinks. All that remained within were for me.
–Don’t worry, he told me, it’s not my gift, I assure you. You played well tonight, young man, but not that well. However, the three soldiers here—did you see them?—appreciated the effort and sent this over on their behalf.
I looked around and saw two such sitting at a table on the other side of the karchma. One glanced up, nodded, not perhaps with a smile on his face, but neither with an expression that suggested I should high tail it back to the shtetl.`
–Soldiers from the 102nd Viatka Infantry Regiment. Sometimes they protect us Jews. Sometimes they don’t. But here in my karchma, they are guests. Tone deaf guests, but guests.
My heart said share it with she who might now drink with me. My thirst said simply, drink. And as she had disappeared, I drank. And drank some more. Just as shadows are not seen, so too are players of klez, however poignant, amusing or memorable their meher. I had played. I had returned to shadow. I raised a glass to my new found infantry companions who never looked my way again. And I drank.
Until I’d had enough. My head started to pound. My legs felt uncertain. And my loins spoke only of the need to pass water. I picked up my beloved fiddle, hidden once again by its bag, and left the karchma.
My legs did not want to move. My insides did. But my head moved most of all, as I walked outside into the warm night air. Although not a long walk back to the shtetl, it was not a walk I felt was within me, at least not at that moment. A short rest. Eyes closed. Just a short time.
I walked into a small barn. I stumbled to the rear of the space to see, firstly, on one side the light of a single candle in glass. And on the other side of the open space, stripped of shirt, wearing only a soldier’s breeches, one of the gallant soldiers of the 102nd Viatka Infantry Regiment, astride not his horse, but rather the prone and slightly immodestly dressed figure of the Shenk’s daughter who I took to be struggling, moaning in fear, pushing at him to move away. Or so it seemed to me.
I stopped in my very step.
My breathing ceased.
My head burst with pain and too much drink.
My stomach heaved. And although my heart said no, my insides said yes, and yes again, and I vomited uncontrollably in all directions. Including in the direction of the soldier from the 102nd Viatka Infantry Regiment, who had not seen me.
But she had. She who I adored in silence, who I lusted after, who I wanted only as mine, she had heard me. Had seen me. And had screamed.
This is what I saw: first, the soldier from the 102nd Viatka Infantry Regiment raised his hand, and slapped the love of my life and loins, thinking her protests, rightly I have no doubt, she directed at his informality.
Secondly, he felt the cold evil slop of my inner despair spew onto his bare back and neck.
Thirdly, he shouted. I stood, dumbfounded, determined to protect the honour of she I adored.
The soldier raised himself tall, marched towards me, and as he did I in turn raised myself not nearly as tall, bent my good arm back, jerked, and drew the bag with the kleh so dear to in an arc above my head into the face of the marching soldier from the 102nd Viatka Infantry Regiment.
I may have heard the slight crack of wood on skull. Or perhaps I heard only his roar, then laughter, as he grabbed me and threw me against the side of the barn. He shook his head. But I refused to relent. Instead I stood quickly and reached within my tunic, grabbing the small knife I kept there to strip the gut string I kept for emergency should my fiddle relent. He grinned wildly, ran over and grabbed my shaking arm, my shaking hand, pulled the knife from me.
–Leave her alone! I demanded
–Leave her? Is that what you say, boy? Musician? Music be damned. Music for mutes, but I, boy, I am no mute. And I hate the sound you make.
He pushed me to the ground. Kicked me once. Twice. She who I loved screamed out, I remember that. Screamed to no avail.
And laughing he took the knife. And he cut. First my most beloved first finger on my left hand, most beloved. Cut to the bone. Cut off. Then the second finger so it would serve as no replacement for the first. Then he put the knife to my tongue, even then screaming in pain in fear.
Two things I remember. Another voice, male this time, another soldier yelling for my assailant to stop.
And the sight of my finger most precious lying in a pool of blood in the dirt beside my eyes.
Which closed, as I lost all consciousness of the night. And my most beloved.
*
When I awoke I saw hay. Daylight and hay. A throbbing in my hand served as a reminder. I raised my arm and saw rags covered in blood swaddling in a great lump over the stump that had held the first finger on my right hand, most precious, most precious no longer. I thought perhaps I had died. I hoped perhaps I might die. I lowered my arm to my side. I waited for death, my shadow of a shadow.
–I know what you are thinking. But no, you are not going to die.
I looked over. She who had been the desire of my heart stood at the open door of the barn, the sun seemingly emanate from her perfect form. She walked towards me and I saw, in her expression, not love, not care, not pity, but only—nothing.
–You have slept now for a day and another night. My father did not have the heart to lay you onto a cart and send you on your way.
I stared at my hand.
–First finger gone. Second, half gone. Won’t be playing more music, least not easily. Way you played, not sure such a poor affair.
–The soldier?
–Long gone. No thanks to you. He would have been my escape from this place. Promised to take me with him. Promised to love me. Not now. Thank you very much tanner’s boy.
–But…but he wasn’t like us. He wasn’t…
–No. He wasn’t. Exactly so.
Her expression, or empty expression, did not change. She turned to leave the barn. Hesitated, looked back.
–You’ll be on your way. I saved your fingers if you want them.
I didn’t.
*
I returned to the shtetl. Returned home. Tateh came in from his workshop. He’d heard. He stared for a moment at my bandaged appendage. Looked at me. Sighed.
–Not sure you’ll be able to have work at the tannery any longer. Not sure if any apprentices left for you to try. I’ll need more clients for my coats.
All he said. I went into my alcove. I pulled back the curtain. I removed the fiddle from the bag that had carried it home. Looked at the crack running along its back. Lightning strike, not of the creative sort, the destructive sort. I turned it over. One string snapped. The other I plucked with my undamaged hand. Music reduced to one single note. Note of despair. I threw the kleh into the corner. It would sing to others, would sing to me, no longer.
I lay down. Closed my eyes. Slept again.
I woke to see Tatl staring down at me.
–I thought you were in Odessa.
–So I am.
–But I am not.
–Are you certain? Think instead you are with me, as I with you.
I understood. He was not there. I was not here.
–My poetry needed your song.
–I can play no longer.
–No.
–Are you enlightened? You said you sought the enlightenment. So have you found it?
–I do not have an answer for you. The enlightenment is in the future. Now we have to seek it.
–I as well? I see only darkness.
–Then the future is dark for you.
–Do you think it is?
–Dark, light, who can say, really. Whatever it is I’ll be with you. That’s a promise.
–But you promised you would take me with you.
–And so I did.
–But I am not with you.
–Of course you are. As you were. Behind all light is a shadow.
–So I am shadow.
–You always were. Shadow. But shadow is but the echo of one’s soul, wouldn’t you say? An echo of who we are. And were.
–I did not ask to be born.
–No. Nor did I. But the decisions are not ours to make. Now then. Time to go. You and me. Our time. See what there is.
–Enlightenment.
–Yes. The journey. Hope. We will.
–You were always wiser, Tanl.
–No. You thought I was such. I was not. You and I, always the same. Simply, we are. A story we tell. The beginning of a story. To tell.
I nodded at him. I felt him reach out, put his hand on my shoulder. Nod, smile. Took my damaged hand in his, looked at me, at my hand not entirely whole, as indeed my life would not be entirely whole.
–We are still poetry. We are still the poem.
With that he was gone. With that, I slept still.
*
Several days later, with my few belongings I put in a sack to carry on my back, I started my journey from the shtetl where I had been born. I knew I would not return. I did not turn in the direction of Odessa. I would not find enlightenment there. I did not know where I would find it, but I knew I would look. So it had to be. There might be music, or not. Poetry or not. But there would be life, whatever that meant in the world.
As I started down the street I heard a voice call my name.
My Tateh.
I turned as he hobbled quickly in my direction. He stopped before me, looked at me for a long moment, and handed me my bag holding the violin once gifted to my by Tanl who I loved, the fiddle, the kleh.
–You should take it, my Tateh said.
–I cannot play.
–You’ll play. In your head and heart at least. You always need memory. This is memory.
I reached up. Took the bag holding memory within. Nodded. And walked on, with my Tateh standing in the road, watching me, he growing smaller. I went on my way. He disappeared.
As did I.
The Galway Review 