GIVE THEM THIS DAY THEIR DAILY SOUP

                                                   Hanns F Skoutajan

There was a time in my life when I was nourished at a soup kitchen. Thankfully it was a long time ago and far, far away from here.

My parents and I and a lot of other refugees had flooded into the city of Prague, so much so that the Czech authorities were sending them back by trainloads into the arms of the SS. All were German antifascists on the run from Hitler’s forces and the minions that were supporting his takeover of the Sudetenland in the fall of 1938. The Nazis were intent on picking up the leadership and shipping them off to concentration camps such as Dachau. My father’s name was prominent on their list, I was later to discover.

We had very little money or possessions, only what we could carry when we arrived in the capital city. What money we did have we tried to save for even harder times ahead. We did not know what was to come. The future did not look promising.

Our accommodation was in an attic which had been supplied with straw mattresses on the floor, there was not a stick of furniture about. One toilet supplied the needs of all of us. Most of our neighbours were Jewish who had been able to read the writing on the wall. Their hope was to reach Britain, the US or perhaps Palestine. Our worst suspicions came to reality a few months later when the German forces occupied the rest of our country. We had reached a safe haven by that time.

Every day a large crowd gathered at the Labour Hall to line up at the counter where we were dished out a (thankfully) thick, rich soup and a hunk of heavy rye bread. and a piece of hard chocolate. It was better than what was served in Canada during the depression. We were grateful for these mercies.

What sustained our morale was the sense that we had one thing in common, that we were not alone. We were political refugees with a common enemy. This fear also united us.

I still recall the slogan on the wall of the hall - “Work and Democracy.” That’s  quite different from the words over the entrance to the concentration camp that awaited many : Arbeit Macht Frei:  (work will make you free). This was of course a lie for in those camps all were slave labour, and freedom would only come with death or if you were lucky to survive until the arrival of the allies armies.

Our family was among the fortunates inasmuch as my father was one of the most endangered and thus soon spirited out of the country to Britain. Mother and I followed three weeks later. In the meantime we continued to be guests at the soup kitchen and attic.

As I pass by the Shepherds Of Good Hope at the corner of Murray and King Edward streets in Ottawa, I observe the crowd, fortunate in their misfortune to receive food and accommodation. I have never been inside but can only imagine it to be pretty crowded and quite basic. 

The clientelle is quite different from what we were back at the Labour Hall in Prague in the fall of 1938  There is only one thing we have in common: we are all victims. There are those who blame the victims for their victimhood, but many of them have histories of mental illness, drug abuse, first hand or second hand as in fetal alcohol syndrome, as well as a plethora of other causes. 

We were victims of ideology. We believed in freedom and social justice, peace and security.  We all suffered homelessness and fear.

I admire those who care for them as well as those who cared for us either through donations or with feet on the ground. It is not an easy task.

Today there are victims on every continent, especially in Africa and the Middle East but also some on this blessed continent. They are the poor, the displaced, the sick, children and the aged.

Those bowls of soup at Prague’s Labour Hall remind me how narrow is the trail from misfortune and how broad the stream of those en route. Much has changed from those days when my parents and I stood in line dependent on the compassion and generosity of our providers. Unfortunately much has remained the same. Fortunately there are many agencies and individuals dedicated to helping them whether at home or abroad. The need is dire. Support them generously! 

SQ 14/09/2014

More writing may be found at MYQUEST   

    

                              PARLER VOUS.....?

                                          Hanns Skoutajan

A strange phenomenon has been manifesting itself in my brain - words and phrases in the Czech language, irrelevant and often inappropriate, have been popping into my head at all hours. 

The Czech language, until I was ten years of age, was a second language for me, German being my mother tongue. I was then living in what used to be the Sudetenland, an area stretching along the border of Germany and Austria. In our city, 85% German, Czech was the second language. We children were taught Czech in school. By the time I was nine years old I could converse in basic Czech but then we were forced to flee the country when Hitler annexed it.

Just before Christmas of 1938 we arrived in Scotland and I was now exposed to English albeit with a Scottish accent. One day someone approached me and addressed me in Czech. I was embarrassed, although the language sounded very familiar and I thought that I should understand it, nevertheless I did not know what the person was saying. It seemed that in my effort to learn English Czech had been totally wiped from my mind. Not until four years later in Canada when we took up residence in the little wartime community of Batawa east of Toronto, did I hear Czech once again.

Batawa was the home of the Bata Shoe company who had also come to Canada with Tom Bata to establish the shoe business in this country. Many of my new friends spoke Czech with each other which sounded familiar but was mostly incomprehensible to me except for bits and pieces.

In high school I learned French and later Latin. The French that was taught was Parisian but not that which was current in La Belle Provence. However, we did read Maria Chapdelaine, a novel set in the Lac St. Jean area of the province. 

As for Latin, it is basic to many of the modern romance languages, especially Italian.  Once upon a time it was the official language of the Roman Empire, the language of Virgil and Cicero. When it disappeared from common usage it continued to be, until this day, the language of the Roman church.

At university I studied the Greek of Homer, Aeschylus, of Plato and Aristotle , but also the New Testament of the Bible. although much of it was written in a colloquial form known as koine. It also familiarized me with the Cyrillic alphabet which allowed me to read the street names in Moscow and prevented me from getting lost. 

As well I was also exposed to Hebrew and managed to be able to read some of the Torah and Psalms particularly because I was already familiar with them in English. 

Jesus did not speak Hebrew. The language in his home and community was Aramaic, a sort of amalgam of Hebrew, Arabic and other semitic languages. 

However, I have retained German, my mother tongue. My cousin, a German lawyer, maintains that my German is better than it ever was and that this is a sign of old age.  I studied German literature at university and did a year of postgraduate studies in German  which certainly helped in maturing my mother tongue.

But all this is ancient history. What amazes me is the occurrence of Czech phrases and words, seemingly out of the blue, having been stored somewhere in my subconscious all these years. As a child I had learned simple songs  such as : ”Jade, jade, poštovsky pan,” about the arrival of the mailman, or  “Ja mam konĕ,” about owning a pony, not very sophisticated, you will agree. 

All this leads me to assert the importance of learning another language, be that becoming bilingual in Canada or comfortable as a tourist in Latin America and elsewhere.

Language is more than words. It is a culture, a way of life. As the world gets smaller and our neighbourhood contracts, we need to appreciate those neighbours and their modus vivendi. However many of us are content to rely on English, the universal language, spoken and understood the world over. It is thus easy to become linguistically lazy.

I realize that I shall never become fluent in Czech or any other language for that matter, and there are languages such as Spanish or Chinese that are more practical, but I must admit that upon hearing Czech, either sung or recited, a chill runs down my spine and I sense an affinity and love for my first second language. 

My strong advice to all who have not yet reached the age of dotage is to attempt to learn to read, if not to speak fluently, another tongue. Being able to converse and to read in German has given me a great sense of satisfaction. I practice it at every opportunity. 

SPIRIT QUEST  

September 10, 2014

More writings are available on MYQUEST

  

IN THE BEGINNING : SOMETHING TO STAND ON

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Nooooo, not you of all people!” was the response of Pat Bennet, my favourite high school teacher, when at age 17 in Grade 12 I revealed my professional aspiration to her. She was a Catholic and undoubtedly had in her mind the image of a pious celibate which didn’t quite jibe with the Hanns she had come to know. 

Mr. Sigsworth, the principal of this village school in eastern Ontario, was a strict Free Methodist who was less negative but had some doubts about my beliefs. I had not been “saved” as far as he perceived me. My fellow students were unanimously ambiguous or just didn’t give a damn what I did with my life after I left the school. 

As for my parents they were relieved that I had chosen what they called an intellectual calling. Father had left the Lutheran church when he was a young man. It was too narrow and nationalistic. Mother had similarly left the Roman Catholic Church about the same time. She was a humanist and feminist and that didn’t sit too well in the pew.  In Canada they joined, and indeed became quite active, in the United Church.

I had been challenged by my pastor, the Rev. Henry Vaclavic, shortly after my confirmation. He was a Czech like ourselves and a minister of the Church of All Nations in Toronto. He made periodic visits to our little community to minister to Czech families.  His services in the Batawa recreation hall were rather long inasmuch as he repeated the sermon in Czech. I thus became well acquainted with the flooring of the hall.

“Have you ever thought of the ministry?” he enquired of me. Well, yes I did. Although my parents had left their respective churches they felt that I should be acquainted with their former faiths. Father took me to the Lutheran church. It was very plain but had a large statue of Christ with outstretched, welcoming arms, behind the altar as if to say, “Come unto me all ye who labour and are heavy laden...” The services were rather wordy. The music was very Lutheran, not lively. “A Mighty Fortress” however was powerful and father sang it with conviction. Mother had taken me to the Catholic church and I was quite impressed by the bells and smells, the elaborately garbed clergy who bowed and genuflected gracefully before the altar. It was all very dramatic and reminded me of the operas I attended at our beautiful baroque opera house where father was on the board of managers. I regarded the mass like a dramatic performance to be enjoyed but not believed in literally.

After my positive response Mr. Vaclavic passed my name on to Queen’s Theological College in Kingston where the students were organizing a gathering of young people during the Christmas holidays known as the Christians Renewal Conference. I received an invitation and decided to attend. On leaving home father warned me, “The students will make a significant impact on you, think carefully about your decision.” 

The students were indeed infectiously enthusiastic about  their chosen profession. One of whom was Bob Shorten, who is still in contact with me. We had fun but also listened to lectures given by some of the Queen’s staff. I was particularly interested in the ideas expounded by Prof. Mac Gilmour who gave the gospels a more liberal interpretation than that with which I had been familiar. Also Prof. Harry Kent, an Old Testament teacher, made this ancient history come live. There was also a church bureaucrat present to talk to possible candidates for the ministry individually. Dr. John Leng became my mentor.

One day I received an invitation from Leng to come to Toronto to the “Church House,” the secretariat of the national church, at 299 Queen Street West, not 999 on that same street which was the well known mental hospital.

Leng introduced me to a number of senior secretaries, one of whom advised me to go to the United Church Book Room in the building and to obtain a recently published book with the interesting title “Something To Stand On.” Lewis Dunnington the author was minister of a Methodist church in Idaho. A good many students attended his services - remember this was the post war period. They had lots of questions about the Bible and religion in general. He put a question box in the foyer of the church and invited students to put their questions into it. He then endeavoured to preach on the suggested topics and later gathered them in the book that I had bought.

In these sermons/chapters, he dealt with “Hell, A Place or State of Mind” coming down on the latter, of the person of Jesus, could he possibly be both God and man, and again came down on the latter. He wrote/preached about miracles, sin and forgiveness and much more. His book has a place of honour on my bookshelf inasmuch as it had opened my mind to other interpretations of the faith than that with which I had been accustomed. Today his thinking is represented by John Shelby Spong, an American Episcopalian bishop, who has been in the forefront of the movement for gay marriage and women priests and bishops. He is both reviled and highly honoured by Americans. I have acquired and read most of his books. He is also a frequent lecturer in Canada.

The conference at Queen’s concluded with a communion service at Morgan Memorial Chapel on the Queen’s campus. During that service I did some serious thinking as my father had admonished me to do and came to the conclusion, as he suspected I would, to embark on my journey to ordination in the United Church of Canada. In his latter years when he and my mother lived in Toronto they were always in my congregation.

On returning home I was soon conscripted by my local pastor to assist him. The Frankford pastoral charge consisted of four congregations: Frankford, the village church, Stockdale at the corner of two roads just west of the village and Zion at the end of a long farm road. After the war Batawa was added to this trio of churches. It was different, looking more like a suburb. Its residents were employees of the Bata Shoe Company and thus a more urban crowd. For our education we travelled by bus, perhaps the first school bus in Canada, to the schools in Frankford and finally to Trenton and Belleville. 

During the summer holidays all four congregations wanted morning services and I was conscripted to preside over two in rotation. My minister gave me a number of books of sermons to peruse and then turned me loose in those four churches. Dunnington’s book was always close at hand. I needed something to stand on.This turned out to be a real education. I still have some of these sermons in a box in storage. 

A number of people have asked me about my faith journey. There is much more to it than what I have just narrated and of course my mind has changed in certain instances, but it is the beginning and I hope to add to this story as time goes by. 

SQ 25/08/2014

THE GUNS OF AUGUST CAN ONCE AGAIN BE HEARD

Hanns F. Skoutajan

“The War that Ended Peace” Is the intriguing title of a book by Margaret MacMillan in which she explores the reasons for the Great War, 1914 - 1918. It had been preceded by a century of relative peace since the end of the Napoleonic wars, relative inasmuch as there had been minor confrontations but nothing to match the conflagration that would consume all of Europe and a good deal more. It would entail a massive loss of life on both sides especially on the front between Germany and France.  It ended with an armistice on November 11, 1918  and be followed by a conference at Versailles that dismembered the Austria Hungary empire, establishing new boundaries and creating new states such as Czechoslovakia, the land of my birth. Loss of territory such as the Rhineland and large amounts of compensation were demanded much of which Germany, although the loser, ignored. 

The guns of August, the title of Barbara Tuchman’s book, are also audible in our time especially in the Middle East in a very lopsided struggle between Israel and Palestine in Gaza which is being pounded to smithereens, but also in northern Africa and Asia. Many of the wars today are not nation against nation but internal such as in Syria. Russia and its former vassal state are at each others throats with much of the world particularly the United States, Europe and Canada siding with the Ukraine. These have the potential of escalating into wider international conflicts. 

Let me be frank, I hate war. One would suppose that most everyone does, but that isn’t so. Many countries are gaining great profits by supplying weapons and the fuel that run them. It was Dwight Eisenhower who coined the term “military- industrial complex” where the winners are the suppliers of bombs, aircraft and the oil on which war runs.

Although, as a child until my 9th birthday, I lived less than 30 km from the German border, I never did see shots fired in anger. I did witness political skirmish on the streets of my home town, between the Sudeten Germans, the Nazis versus the Socialists, until the Munich Agreement divided the country on September 25, 1938. 

Only after fleeing to Scotland was I familiarized with war. On a short stay in Glasgow prior to our departure for Canada my parents and I and other refugees were treated to a civil defence film. Much of its footage was shot in the Spanish Civil War and only too graphically showed the bombing by Hitler’s airforce of Republican cities. It frightened me and I could hardly wait until we boarded an ocean liner to take us across the Atlantic far from what would become a theatre of war. 

Of course  during the war I was often exposed to film clips about the fighting in Europe and North Africa. These were usually shown before the main feature films such as Sun Valley, a light song and dance kind of film. That was before the Americans were attacked at Pearl Harbour and themselves became embroiled. 

For a time an allied victory was not a forgone conclusion. Germany was winning on all fronts until stopped at Stalingrad in Russia and Alamain in the Sahara. In the Pacific the Japanese island hopped. Canadian men and women went abroad , many did not return from Italy, France and Germany. War was not a pretty thing.  Brits found out that the civil defence film I had seen was quite realistic. 

It was Carl von Clausewitz, the Prussian military tactician, who said that “war is the continuation of politics by other means.” That process must be reversed, and war must end and negotiations take the place of violence in order to restore normalcy and peace. The United Nations has an important and difficult role to play in the world. Yes, I passionately hate war. I would like to be a pacifist but sometimes it seems that the only way is by military action such as defeating a Hitler.

It is now 100 years since the outbreak of the Great War. We are reminded of the sacrifices Canadians made at Vimy Ridge, Passchendaele and the Somme as well as many other bloody and muddy venues. The last survivors of that war have now left the stage and the actors in other wars of the 20th century are also diminishing. Soon there shall be few if any witnesses to those bloodlettings.  

We need desperately to be reminded of the “inglory” of war. Our government wants to impress us with the valour of our soldier, sailors and airmen from the war of 1812 to the present, to convince us that Canada came of age at Flanders and a generation later on the beaches of Normandy. I have no doubt about the price of sacrifice but it is nevertheless a tragedy that differences can only be settled on battlefields and with the loss of life and the devastation of environment. I ask myself how the struggle between Israel and Palestine will be resolved. 

I hate war whether Canadians are involved or not. Ours should be a peacekeeping role rather than a warrior nation as written about by McKay and Swift in their book Warrior Nation . 

War is not glorious, it is ugly. Remember the horrors of the last century as well as our present time.

SPIRIT QUEST  28/08/2014

   

BEHOLD!

Hanns F Skoutajan

There are times when, at least to me, this world seems old and worn out, its people aged and exhausted. Our environment is threatened and devastated. Nation wars against nation and  peaceful solutions do not seem imminent. It is a rather negative assessment and no way to invite a readership.

This, I suppose is nothing new. 100 years ago the Great War began with a shot in the streets of Sarajevo. A devastating war followed in which thousands lost their lives in battles that seemed to gain nothing until an exhausted Germany and Austria pleaded for amnesty. Twenty years later they did it all over again.  Margaret McMillan called it The War that Ended Peace.

But even much longer ago the world, at least as it was known then, seemed problematic. Empires clashed, refugees even then wandered the globe. St. John the Divine to whom is attributed that last and most enigmatic of biblical writings known as The Revelations of St. John the Divine, pictured God sitting on his throne and announcing renewal, “Behold I make all things new,” Revelations 21: 5, inspired by the words of Isaiah 43: 18 - 19.  I have long felt that these words ought to be set to music, and indeed, they have been. 

For a time in my ministry I dabbled with music for worship. Nothing I composed made it into Voices United, the new United Church hymn book or its successor, More Voices. 

I was looking for a tune to accompany St. John’s words. Then one evening I attended a concert at Roy Thompson Hall in Toronto. The Czech Philharmonic orchestra performed the tone poem  My Fatherland by Smetana. Best known of that musical cycle is The Moldau which describes the river as it springs in the mountains and forests of his homeland and makes its way to the sea. 

Another less well-known segment of that composition is called In Bohemia’s Forests and Meadows. As I sat, listening and enjoying the music from my land of birth, I was suddenly aware that one of the themes of that piece suited itself to the words of St. John: Behold I make all things new.”

On coming home that evening I found the vinyl platter of Smetana’s composition and discovered the bars of music that had so moved me. I scribbled some notes which I then took to my amiable and gifted organist Roger Hobbs and together we came up with a tune based on that theme.

I am not sure whether lyrics beget tunes or is it the other way round, but having a melody to work with I soon came up with meaningful words:

Behold I make all things new, the bread, the wine and you,

The kernels fall to the ground, there they must die, 

and bring forth new shoots of hope, food for all folk, they’ll hunger no more.

Behold I make all things new, the bread, the wine and you.

The grapes are plucked from the vine, give forth their blood, and

slake the hot pain of thirst, gladden the heart and bring forth new life.

Behold I make all things new, the bread, the wine and you.

If you would come after me, take up your cross and

follow the path of love, justice and peace proclaim, and rejoice.

In other words, renewal always comes with sacrifice. Unfortunately humans are too prone to attempt to bring in new eras by means of strife, the rich enriching themselves at the cost of the poor and ravishing the environment to the detriment of all living creatures.

Perhaps I am naive to hope that it can be otherwise, that humans can learn that to live together as peaceful people in a clean environment requires sacrifice. To me that is the predominant message of a true religious faith.

Many years ago while visiting Isreal/Palestine I encountered Faisal Huseini, the leader of the Palestine Liberation Movement. He had just come home from an Israeli prison, Without bitterness he said to me something that I shall never forget. “Israelis and Palestinians must get rid of a hope and a fear, hope that they can have all this to themselves, and fear that they will be pushed out into the desert or the sea.” 

These words had a profound affect on me because they apply to all the world, not merely the much troubled Middle East. The citizens of the world must banish the hope that they can have it all their own way, and the fear that they will be overcome by the enemy.

  

  Spirit Quest 06/07/2014

A MUSICAL QUEST

Hanns F Skoutajan

There is one regret, well at least one, that I have in my life and that is that I never

became proficient in playing a musical instrument. I had a hopeful beginning when at

six years of age I began taking piano lessons from a wonderful blind teacher. It amazed

me that, although he could not see my fingers on the keys, he was always aware when I

did not use the correct fingering.

Mother and her sister were the musicians in the family. My aunt played the piano in an

orchestra while mother much later in life and on another continent played the piano and

at times the organ in our little church.

I loved music and was exposed to opera and concerts in our wonderful opera house in

Aussig, now Usti nad labem in what was then Czechoslovakia. That exposure was

dramatically terminated when in the fall of 1938 were were forced to flee our homeland

from the invading German army. For a number of years we were deprived of the sound

of music while living in a remote area of Saskatchewan without even a radio.

I recall the day that mother and I left the farm. In town before boarding our train for the

east we had lunch with friends. They turned on the radio and we only briefly heard the

beginning of the broadcast of the Metropolitan opera. Mother gasped and then broke

into tears. Unfortunately we had to leave for the station to catch our train.

My appreciation of music is something like what the late meistro Sir Thomas Beecham

is said to have accused the British of : they don’t understand music but like the sound it

makes. I also love the sound, the rhythm and emotions music conveys.

I was absolutely delighted when my daughter Karla became proficient on the clarinet

and performed with the band of North Toronto Collegiate. My son Stephen followed in

her footsteps in percussion. He achieved the Bachelor of Music degree in performance

at University of Toronto. For a time it seemed that this was to be his chosen profession

but that changed although he continues to perform with a band.

Music, mother told me early in my life, is a universal language. True, different ethnicities

and cultures have different genres of music , but good music comes from the heart.

In my most recent Spirit Quest I referred to Dvorak’s Symphony From the New World, it

is undoubtedly one of my favourites. Many of you who have responded and agreed with

my taste.

Religious faith without music seems incomplete. I have been highly privileged to have

had an excellent choir and a most accommodating organist and choir master at St.

James-Bond United Church where I served for 16 years. He was always able to capture

the theme of worship and apply it musically. Thus it was that when my father died I

discussed the music with Roger the organist and chose the Largo from Dvorak’s

symphony : Going Home. But then I had a desire to use as a recessional the marching

song of the Sudeten Social Democrats of which my father had been a leader “back

home.” I could not find the music so I hummed the tune to him and he quickly picked it

up and transcribed it. I suggested that the first verse be played as if by a distant

trumpet, the second verse would be enhanced and the third, well, he could pull out all

the stops and let the organ roar.

Among those attending the service were some of my father’s compatriots for whom this

song was very familiar. At the third verse they rose to their feet and sang the words as

they followed the casket out of the church. It was a very moving experience for me and

my family. It made me very much aware of the power of music to motivate and to tell the

story, to raise the spirits.

Although I am unable to play a musical instrument I did attempt to write alternate lyrics

to be sung to familiar hymn tunes. Among them is a refugee hymn I titled Sanctuary.

The choir of the Church of St. John the Evangelist in Ottawa recorded the hymn to be

used in the documentary film “Hitler’s German Foes” which is based on my book

“Uprooted and Transplanted”

The following are the words of hymn: Sanctuary

Where is home, the land familiar, where the village known so well,

where the mountains and the river, where the forest and the sea,

where the city thronged with people? Land of birth remember me.

Long the journey’s search for freedom, hiding, running through the night,

seeking refuge among strangers, begging help, a place to hide,

strangers seeking safer havens , often hated, seldom loved.

Some there are compassionate people, knew their master also fled,

from mad Herod’s purge of children, waiting for that storm to pass.

Willingly these offer shelter , brothers, sisters, Christ their host.

In God’s realm there are no boundaries, no barbed wires, trenches, walls,

where there are no racial ghettos, all are welcome none are lost.

Peace and justice is their charter, fear deported, love enshrined.

SQ 18/06/2014A MUSICAL QUEST

Hanns F Skoutajan

GOING HOME

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Homesickness” can be a devastating emotional experience. I have never been stricken by this malady but I have observed my mother suffering from this “illness.” I was only a child when my parents and I were separated from our Czech homeland just before the outbreak of war. Perhaps she was not so much missing the land in which she had been born and raised as pining for her family, her mother, sister and brother whom she had left behind.

Our homeland is a beautiful country. At a recent performance of Dvorak’s New World Symphony by the National Arts Centre Orchestra of Ottawa, I was made aware of the nostalgic beauty of Bohemia, also Dvorak’s homeland. 

The New World Symphony was composed by the preeminent Czech composer during his visit to America in 1892. Undoubtedly this visit made a tremendous impact  on him. He wrote several other compositions , The American Quartet, Opus 96; a String Quartet, Opus 97 and The American Flag - a rather nationalistic, musical evocation. 

There is some controversy about the New World Symphony, how much of it was really written in the new world. People like myself who have Czech blood in their veins, recognize some Czech folk melodies embedded in the score while others recall that Dvorak was deeply inspired by the poem Hiawatha by Longfellow, and particularly  

by the scene of Minnehaha’s funeral in the forest. Dvorak had read the poem in it’s Czech translation before coming to North America.

There is very little similarity between North America  and the Czech countryside. Otakar Sourek has written much about Dvorak and his art and describes Bohemia as a land  “of deep sighing pine forests... and the broad, fragrant fields.” I can well appreciate that Dvorak experienced a sense of homesickness. The rough farmland of northern Saskatchewan where we were settled and expected to survive had no similarity to the hills, rivers and  the city that we had left behind.

A strange thing happened to me on my first return visit to Czechoslovakia in 1968. I spent a day in the city where I was born, walking and visiting places familiar to me, that I had left behind 30 years earlier. In the centre of the city is located a beautiful baroque opera house which had been spared the allied bombing where I had often attended concerts and operas  with my parents. In front of the opera house and in many other places around the city, I saw large posters advertising the next concert : Ma Vlast, the beautiful and well-known tone poem by Smetana. The Czech words mean “my fatherland.” And so it seemed that I was constantly reminded that I was indeed in my fatherland, as I walked the streets, to my school, the house where I had lived for the first 9 years of my life and also the birthing centre where in 1929 I first opened my eyes to the world. No wonder I have a feeling of nostalgia when I hear music that evokes such memories.

No, I have never suffered from homesickness as I observed in my mother, but I have a deep appreciation of the land of my birth. Although I cannot speak Czech the very sound of that language like the music of its composers makes a significant impact on my emotions.

In the repeated Largo of Dvorak’s symphony which contains one of the most famous themes in all classical music, is the well known song “Going Home.” Does it refer to a negro spiritual or to his own nostalgia, perhaps both? When choosing music for my father’s funeral I prevailed on my organist and choir to perform the choral rendition of “Going Home.” I am afraid I was not being very gentle on mother’s emotions in the process.

It is a universal theme for we are all on a homeward journey. I am now past my 85th birthday and also aware that I am coping with a terminal illness. I am getting closer to home, I am reminded, as I read the daily death notices in the newspapers noting the passing of contemporaries.

I have not, nor do I believe that there is any empirical evidence of what transpires beyond that last frontier. I simply prefer to believe that I am going home. That conviction animates what I do en route. 

SPIRIT QUEST  08/06/2014