David's Story

Dalager Stig

Description

A classic of children's literature, translated into several languages.Separated from his parents who are deported by the Nazis, David struggles to survive, alone, hungry and scared, until he eventually finds his way to the city of Warsaw. There he learns from other Jewish boys how to work in the black market, dodging the police and the Gestapo until the terrible day comes when the Warsaw ghetto is cleared and everyone is herded onto trains for the long trip to the camps. Will David survive? Can he outwit them one more time?Shortlisted for The Marsh Award for Children's Literature in Translation.Reviews:"How was it possible for Stig Dalager to write about the last years of the story of David in such a shocking and convincing way that one should think that this was written by Isaac B. Singer or one of the other Polish-Jewish geniuses?" -Jewish Information Magazine"Dalager has written a shockingly relevant historical novel, a taut story of international standing and appeal. A monument to our own shame, at that time and now." -Politiken Newspaper, Denmark"Despite being a translation of Stig Dalager's original Danish text, this is one of the most readable and accessible accounts of the Holocaust I have ever read. My wife and I both enjoyed this book immensely, and it reads well. It is presented in good clear prose, and rings true with other accounts - my wife once transcribed texts from Holocaust survivors, and knows what sounds like real accounts. Dalager is an experienced writer, and this shows.There are a number of Holocaust survivor children's diaries, and you can feel that whilst this book is changing from one to another, each section was very real to the person who wrote the diaries used. The story begins with the start of restrictions on Jewish life, and advances to roundups, forced marches, the ghetto, and transportation. The ending is something you'll have to judge for yourself as to whether or not David makes it out alive. He certainly seems to be able to escape from earlier challenges, but the author has adapted the stories, so who knows which chapters were real happy endings, and which ended the way that so many tragedies did in those times.The atmosphere in David's village at the start shows the tipping point where Jews were suddenly no longer just neighbours, and became non-persons to be abused and ultimately murdered. The question one has to ask is: just how did their oppressors come to believe that anybody has the right to do what they did? In reality, this book reminds you that in the end, it was the Nazis who lost their humanity. Humans could not have treated children the way that these children were forced to suffer.Read this book, and if you didn't understand what I meant in the previous paragraph, you soon will... " *****- M. J. Jacobs, AmazonAbout the AuthorStig Dalageris one of Denmark's most distinguished authors whose novels and plays have been translated and staged internationally. His works include I count the hours, (staged in 12 countries), The Dream, (premiered in New York's La Mama Theatre starring Ingmar Bergman and Bibi Andersson ); Two Days in July (a novel about the plot to kill Hitler), Journey in Blue, about Hans Christian Andersen (published in 15 countries and nominated for The Impac Prize 2008), The Labyrinth and Falling Shadows (about 9/11).

Informations

• Publié par: PublishDrive
• Date de parution: 30 avril 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781906582234
• Langue: English

Extrait

Stig Dalager
Born in Copenhagen 1952, Stig Dalager is the author offifty different works including novels, drama, poetry, essays anddocumentary films. Several of his novels and plays have been publishedand/or staged internationally, appearing in twenty-one differentcountries.
His best-known novels include the acclaimed Journey inBlue (about Hans Christian Andersen, nominated for the UK Impac Prize2008) and Two Days in July (about the Stauffenberg plot to killHitler during WWII).
As a playwright, he had an international breakthroughwith I Count The Hours , staged in New York, followed by TheDream , also staged in New York and An American Electra , firstpresented in Madrid (May 2009) and due to be staged in New York.
Dalager was for several years co-editor of theDanish-Jewish magazine New Outlook . His documentary Darkness andReconciliation (2003) offers a personal account of the Israeli-Palestineconflict through portraits of people on both sides of the conflict.
Stig Dalager has lived in Leipzig, Vienna and New Yorkand now lives with his two daughters in Copenhagen.
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www.aurorametro.com
David’s Story
by
Stig Dalager
Translated by Frances Østerfelt and Cheryl Robson

AURORA METRO PRESS
First printed in 2010 by Aurora Metro Publications Ltd. www.aurorametro.com [e-mail]
We are grateful for financial assistance from TheKobler Trust.
David’s Story © copyright Stig Dalager2010
This translation © copyright Frances Østerfelt andCheryl Robson 2010
Cover image © copyright fotosearch.com 2010
Production: Rebecca Gillieron
With thanks to: Caroline Hennig, Richard Turk, NeilGregory, Lesley Mackay, Sumedha Mane, Jackie Glasgow, Stacey Crawshaw, PaganMace and Reena Makwana.
In accordance with Section 78 of the Copyright,Designs and Patents Act 1988, Stig Dalager asserts his moral right to beidentified as the author of the above work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system ortransmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior permission of thepublisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to thispublication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims fordamages.
Trade distribution
Print ISBN 978-1-906582-04-3
UK: Central Books 020 8986 [e-mail]
USA: TCG/Consortium N.Y. 212 609 5900 [e-mail]
Canada: Canada Playwrights Press Toronto 416 703 [e-mail]
E-book conversion by Simon Smith
E-book ISBN 978-1-906582-23-4
The sky is slate grey, the morning chill, as he makes hisway through the village in his thin jacket and worn boots. The path is muddyfrom the constant rain they’ve had for the last two days. No one noticeshim as he moves among the silent houses, apart from the crows that dart upfrom a puddle and flap away noisily over the rooftops. He stops to watchthem as they glide in the wind and disappear like two black spots over thefields.
He always watches the birds, especially the crows, whichnobody likes, not even his father. “They’re only trouble,” his fathersays. In the summer, their feathers gleam as if oiled. Sometimes he imagineshimself flying like a bird.
From a distance, he can see a large piece of papernailed to a barn door. He knows what it is, he’s seen one before − apublic notice. At the top, there’s something printed in German and thenthe same thing printed below in Polish, only smaller. The words aren’thard to follow as he can read them in both languages.
The boy rushes to the door, tilting his head to get agood look at it. The last time he read one of these, his father had askedhim, “Do you understand it?” He nodded.
“So what does it say?” Proudly, he replied: “Itsays that it’s forbidden for Jews to go on the train.”
“Do you know what that means?”
He nodded again. But it was as if his father wasn’tcompletely sure he understood – he had that look. His father bent down tohim and took his hand. His father’s large, wrinkled hand completelycovered his own small hand and he usually did this whenever there wassomething he particularly wanted to impress upon him. He wanted his son toremain calm and to trust him. He shouldn’t be afraid. He should listencarefully and do as he was told. But lately, he’d noticed that wheneverhis father took his hand that he was trembling slightly. Maybe he wasfrightened, too.
His father told him: “You mustn’t take the train, noJews may go on the train, if you do, you’ll be punished.”
“Not even to Kielce?” he said. “Do I have to walkto Kielce?”
“We can probably find someone to give you a lift,”said his father. “But you don’t take the train, understand?”
Yes, of course he understood. He just didn’t know why,all of a sudden, Jews mustn’t go on trains. And when he asked his father,he was told: “That’s how it is. We’ll talk about it later!”
They’d always talk about it ‘later’, when hisfather needed to think about something or when he thought he wasn’t oldenough to understand.
But of course he knew what was wrong. It was the police.It was the Germans. Because of the Germans he had to wear an armband with astar, because of the Germans he couldn’t go to school any more, he had tostay at home alone and read his books. Sometimes Jakob came by and theyworked out some problems from the book. He was good at maths, it wasn’tthat hard, and if they couldn’t figure it out, they could ask his father.But lately his father had taken to coming home at the strangest times. Thenhe’d sit for a long while, reading or writing, before suddenly going outagain. He didn’t know what he did. He wasn’t a teacher any more. Therewasn’t any school.
His mother wasn’t home, she cleaned house for some ofthe other families in the community, among them the Schliefersteins who hadthe grocery store by the square. She left early in the morning and came homelate. He had to make his own dinner if his father wasn’t home. And even ifhe was home, it was often the boy who put the food on the table. Sometimeswhen he called his father, he didn’t come to the table. He’d go into thesitting room and stand beside him and say, “Dinner’s ready.” But hisfather just waved him away. “I don’t have time,” he’d say. Or“I’ll be there soon.” Sometimes he left the house without saying aword. Other times he just sat and stared out the window. He felt like hedidn’t know him any more. One day Jakob said: “I think your father’sdoing something dangerous!”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“My father says he’s a communist.”
“No, you’re crazy,” he said, “he’s definitelynot a communist, there aren’t any communists here!”
“My father doesn’t lie,” said Jakob. “He’sseen him in Kielce with some other communists!”
“That’s not true,” he said confused, “how doeshe know they’re communists?”
“You can tell!”
They started to quarrel, but just then his father camein and they fell silent. His father nodded ‘hello’ and went into thekitchen. He was wearing his black overcoat, the one he always wore forspecial occasions. Jakob smirked, quickly pulled on his jacket and dashedout.
The boy stormed in to the kitchen, tugged on hisfather’s sleeve and demanded: “Why won’t you tell me what you’redoing?”
His father turned and hushed him.
“Jakob’s father says you’re a communist, butyou’re not, are you?”
His father took his hand and led him further into thekitchen. He sat down on a chair, still holding his hand,
“Listen, it’s best that you don’t know what I’mdoing.”
“Yes… but why?” he said disappointed.
“There’s a war on, David, you know…”
“Of course,” he said.
“We have to be very careful. You have to watcheverything you say, and the less you know the better.” But he wasn’tsatisfied.
“You’ve always said that I should know everything,that I should learn languages and keep my eyes open!”
“Yes,” said his father, “but this is somethingelse. You still have to keep your eyes open, but there are things that youshould avoid, and there are things that, for your own sake, you shouldn’tknow anything about. It could be a matter of life or death.Understand?”
He nodded, but didn’t really understand. What he couldsee was that his father was restless, that his mind was caught up in acrisis that he couldn’t put into words. This crisis had taken him over socompletely that the father he’d once known had almost disappeared. It wasas if a shadow had embraced him.
That cold, grey morning, he reads the rain soakedannouncement on the barn door: “It’s forbidden for Jews to travel incars.” He reads it over again before turning and looking around at thedeserted square. He’s alone. He’s freezing. He starts running, he runsand runs − he has to get home.
*

A few days later he wakes up with a start, and can hearsounds from the sitting room. It’s a bright day, so he throws the heavyquilt aside and hops out of bed realising he must have slept in. From hiswindow, he can see the two great ash trees at the far end of the smallgarden. The branches are interwoven, black and bare; one branch has astrange round hole. Last spring a robin built a nest in the hole, and everymorning when he woke up he could hear the cries of the young birds. Eventhough he knew the bird couldn’t hear him, he often tiptoed over to thewindow and stood there, entranced by its song. He wondered how such a smallbird could sing so high and clear.
He stands a moment and looks over the fields past thetrees. In the distance Tomachevski is driving his horses, the cart