July 3, 2007 and updated on
April 17, 2008:
||Katarina Jellinek [AKA Kitty Brown]
|My Novel "Power Of The Light"|
is nearing completion.
Written as a legacy for those, whose guidence I was priveledged to receive.
"The Power Of The Light" embraces the experiences, from the turbulent years in Europe and Israel [1924 - 1952], to the present day in Australia.
POWER OF THE LIGHT
Written as a legacy for those, whose guidance I was privileged to receive.
Dedicated to my Grandparents, who raised me with tender loving care,
and to my children, whom I tried to raise in the same spirit.
Special thanks to Ian Campbell Walker,
another great guide in life’s journey.
Katarina Mariah Jellinek.
I believe every life has a tale worth telling. No matter how insignificant or uneventful a life may seem to the person who has lived it.
Story telling, whether true or fictitious is an integral part of the development of our imaginations. Creative thinking is nurtured by our imagination. We need to imagine our ability to fly before we will embark on creating a flying machine.
Some people with highly developed imaginations and sensitivity can accurately depict experiences, without having actually lived those experiences themselves. It is as though these people can look directly into the souls of the people who have had the actual experiences. It is when this ability is coupled with the talent to communicate their sensitivity with others, that the valuable story teller is born. Valuable because they stir our imaginations to the point where we can gain valuable knowledge from the experiences of others as well as our own.
At the tender age of nine, my precious daughter handed me an essay that she had written. It was a story encompassing four generations, who all lived in the same house, observed by a mysterious observer.
That she was able to accurately depict the inner most feelings of the children in the story, who all had different personalities, was impressive but understandable.
Far more challenging for me to grasp, was her ability to portray the succeeding generations in her narrative, so accurately.
For instance, her description of the Great Grandparents in her story; their struggle to come to terms with the eve of their lives – their sense of mortality – their frustrations associated with failing health, were depicted with in-depth perception.
How can a nine year old accurately describe the inner most anxieties of the aged?
Sure the aged may tell us of their plight – but how many of us have the sensitivity to imagine the challenges associated with old age before we reach the condition ourselves.
She ended the story by revealing the mysterious observer - a painting, hanging silently on a wall of the house where a family of four generations had lived their lives.
My daughter’s essay made me realize how much can be gained from the sensitive perceptions of others – no matter their experience or age.
Unfortunately our age old tradition of story telling is dying along with the extended family. Our old folks are secreted away in nursing homes or retirement villages. Our young folks are distracted from life in sensationalism, whilst life goes on.
There were and still are so many wonderful mentors in my life, gifted people, who gave their gifts lovingly. There were the old people, who laid solid foundations for me to build on. Then there were the young people, with refreshing innovative ideas, full of passion and vitality.
I have contemplated my good fortune many times over the years. In so doing I have often had the urge to pass on the legacy of my gifted teachers to others. The culmination of these thoughts has developed into a story of my own.
Ah the story – THE POWER OF THE LIGHT.
INTRODUCTION TO CHAPTER ONE – THE BEGINNING
ONE OF FIFTEEN SURVIVORS, ARRIVAL AT HAIFA, PALESTINE [ISRAEL]
The bodies from the hull they could not lift
So they poured disinfectant into that stinking ship
To quell the stench of rotting corpses
They entered the hull with bandaged noses.
They lowered themselves down on rattling chains
To gather the bodies that could still feel pain
I remember crying for my mum
As they hauled me out into the searing sun.
So long I’d yearned to see the light
In the bowls of that ship as dark as night
Now my body racked with pain
Stood helplessly in the dark again
Eyes shut tight
The lights too bright.
Shuffling around on cracked swollen feet
Drinking in air tasting sweet
My eyes adjusting now to vision blurred
When for the first time my grandfather’s voice I heard.
I heard him give a heartrending sob
When towards me the men on the deck did nod
Informing him that I’d survived
Three thousand souls on that ship had died.
He approached me tenderly on bended knee
With warm embrace he lifted me
I kicked and bit and scratched my grandfathers face
I rebuked with all my strength that warm embrace.
Fear of death was not my qualm
But I’d been left too long without a reassuring arm
Left too many times after a warm embrace
Another rejection I couldn’t face.
Releasing me, realizing I wasn’t ready to accept him yet
He sat down beside me on that burning deck
And said, “You are the daughter of my only son.”
“In his stead, for you, I’ve come.”
I returned his somber gaze
And saw through the blurred, confusing haze
Tear brimmed eyes that met mine
Though I never knew I recognized.
For my father had looked at me like that
With tear filled eyes, below tilted cap
Little did he know at the time
That he’d take part in this ships demise.
Dammed to lie anchored in Haifa Bay
To be shelled if she left
To be starved if she stayed,
With no reprieve until the thirtieth day.
Unknown to him I was on board
Whilst he was a soldier in the British Corp
Firing on us from the Palestinian shore
To stop us refugees from jumping overboard.
Then under the cover of the night
Out of the treacherous sniper’s sights
Five hundred starving, thirst crazed jumped
So onto the water oil they pumped.
When that oil they did ignite
Tortured screams, which will haunt for life
Reached the residents of Haifa’s heights
Too late, they now realized our plight.
Incensed, the citizens rebelled
And told the British too go to hell
And so independence was born in the Promised Land
Into which my grandfather led me with his velvet hand.
|Music, Painting, Writing,Horses.
|If it's worth doing, it's worth doing well.