SOLETH JOCHMEN

(This was a monthly assignment where the members were asked to write a short piece using the word "Christmas")

When the train moved they gave a sigh of relief. No more guards, no more rifle buts, no more screaming. They were leaving the hell of the ghetto to a new life in the resettlements. Keep the faith. Their history taught them that if they were patient it would be alright. Do not resist. Christmas and its vision of renewal held no promise for the true believers. When at last the doors swung open and they saw the smoke from the chimneys, they smiled. “At least we will be warm this winter”.

Ian Jones,
Writers’ Group, Clifton

STALINGRAD by Ian Jones

(This is a monthly assignment where a change of words would have changed history.)

6th Army Headquarters
Stalingrad
31.1.1943

My Fuhrer,

The war goes well. As you predicted, the Russians have collapsed in Stalingrad and Stalin and his government have fled Moscow.

There has been very significant sacrifice on both sides. It is believed that there have been more than two million Russian casualties of which more that half were fatal. The whole city is in ruins and all industrial contribution to the Soviet war effort has ceased. Richtofen’s Stukas were particularly successful in destroying fortifications and morale. Their role in denying reinforcements to the besieged city was absolutely crucial.

One key element of the campaign was the assassination of Nikita Khrushchev by sniper fire in December. He was appointed by Stalin to oversee the resistance and had organized a bitter defense of the city. His death resulted in collapse of command in all areas despite the shooting of thousands of deserters. General Chuikov has been captured and is reluctantly revealing information vital to our future campaigns.

Napoleon would have been in awe of the speed of our advance and our ability to deal with the Russian winter. Casualties are fewer than seven hundred thousand. With the Russian resistance now destroyed we are able to rest and recover. Food is desperately short and looting by displaced peasants is rife. Thousands are shot every day and their horses and other possessions confiscated. Unmarked mass graves are covered when full as the army moves forward. These fertile landscapes will recover in the hands of hard working Arian settlers in due course.

It is with great regret that I am informed of Rommel’s defeat in Africa. He will be sorely missed as a competent Staff Officer. His inability to follow your orders at El Alamein is inexcusable, however, and shows a lack of faith in your military strategies. No doubt he can be replaced and the situation reversed.

It is now clear that delaying the invasion of Britain until the defeat of Russia was a masterstroke. The British will have no stomach for a fight by next autumn. The Americans are making more money dealing with us and will realize there is no future in propping up the tottering remains of a lost empire. As time goes on we will offer America a role in the new world order on our terms when they have accounted for the Japanese.

The Sonderkommando has followed our progress closely and has mopped up large numbers of suspects. Many have succumbed to starvation and exposure in the camps requiring all the able bodied to constantly concentrate on grave digging. The program is slow but methodical and extremely effective. The problem will be solved in every district as we advance. I am informed that a similar program is in full operation in Poland and all other captured territories. The twin scourges of communism and Judaism will be swept from the earth for all time.

Letters from my wife keep me informed about morale at home which is understandably at an all time high. Bombing of German cities has stopped since your discussions with Roosevelt and war production is above target levels. Increasing numbers of rockets are reported on British radio and will be having a devastating effect on British morale. The Irish have again played a pivotal role in American politics. While this is important short term it will not be wise to have pockets of potential discontent in the future.

As you predicted, ‘Barbarossa’ has been an outstanding success and the sacrifices made worthwhile. Heroes of the German people will be honored with appropriate burial in due course. Your judgment and foresight has again been totally vindicated. Please accept my deep and enduring gratitude for allowing me the privilege of serving my Fuhrer and the Fatherland as Field Marshall.

Heil Hitler!

Friedrich Paulus
Field Marshall

LUCKY by Ian Jones

When we arrived at the house the whole place was locked up tight. Often the case with people who live alone. The police arrived at the same time as we did and forced the door. The place was a mess. The smell was the worst. Stale tobacco, rotten food and neglect. The lady was on the floor in the kitchen and the signs were not good. Some scotch still left in the bottle and a stack of shredded sedative packs all over the place. While we were prepping her for transport I noticed a note next to the phone. Two words, ‘please lucky’. Being a crippled and lonely diabetic who has just attempted to top herself did not seem to me to be all that lucky. We called emergency, logged the case and hit the siren. I sat with the patient and watched her vital signs but you cannot get involved with the ‘why’.

When Jennifer arrived at the door with her mum and a bag I knew the inevitable had happened. Jack had shot through as soon as the baby arrived and they had struggled to make ends meet. ‘It will only be for a few weeks’ she said, ‘There is a job on a trawler for the prawn season out of Weipa. Big money. Jen will cope alright at school, she is used to moving about’. An abandoned thirteen year old was about all I needed. The first thing we knew after that was the writeup in the papers. ‘Murder or Accident’ was a devastating headline and Jennifer saw it when she brought in the paper. You probably remember the story. The pony seemed like a good idea at the time and Jennifer had something to care for, for the first time in her life. Everyday after school she rode that pony, brushed him down, rugged and fed him. Her mates from school came weekends to ride the pony and Jennifer was a star. When she went on a working holiday last year I think the pony missed her more that she could have imagined. I told her not to worry, I would be alright.
We got a call from the neighbours who were worried about the pony at the old Thompson place. Apparently no-one is living there since Mrs. Thompson died on Monday and no-one knew if the pony was still around. ‘Her grand daughter looked after the pony but we think she is overseas’. People and their damn pets. It was a shock to find the pony is the shed at the back, barely alive, filthy, starving and almost dead from thirst. How the hell was I supposed to know? If you drop everything every time you get a phone call from a neighbour you would spend your life chasing red herrings and vindictive nonsense. The tilt tray driver hooked the chain on the pony’s leg and started the winch. ‘Took a few days to find the poor old bugger, eh’ he said accusingly. I gave him the paperwork and put my stuff back in my bag. ‘Thanks’ I said. Thanks for nothing.

I picked up my bag and looked around for anything else I should include in my report. Something was scratched into the timber above the door. I stood on the feed bin and ran my fingers over the mark. ‘Lucky’. ‘The pony’s name was Lucky’, I said aloud. Dying from neglect did not seem to me to be all that lucky.

Ian Jones ©

TIME by Ian Jones

There was not a sound. The rain fell so softly, even the tin roof made no sound. The galahs fluffed out their feathers in the river gums and huddled silently together. Not a sound. Russ looked out over the half dry gully they called the ‘Darling’ and shook his head. ‘They used to bring river boats up here’ he said aloud and quickly looked around to see if anyone was listening. Now he was talking to himself.

‘Treechange’ they told their disbelieving friends when they bought the Tilpa Pub. Sydney was killing them they said. Traffic, pollution, work, cost of living, meaningless lifestyle. No time to themselves. The bush still means something, counts for something, where time is measured by daylight. Throw away the diary, the mobile phone, the superficial friendships. ‘You must be mad’. ‘Where the hell is Tilpa’. ‘You’ll be back’. Never, Russ said to himself, never. The estate agent sold the house, the furniture, the BM, the lot. One suitcase each and a Holden Ute.

The place was a mess when they arrived, junk everywhere, most things did not work or needed repair. There was so much to do. It was great to work all day and actually see where you had been. Petra attacked the garden, painted everything in sight, everything except the walls inside where the bloody tourists signed their names. At the end of the day you could sit in the bar, talk to the occasional local and have a few drinks. For the first few years it was a few drinks. Russ felt alive for the first time in his life.

Petra had never learned to cook, with Uni and career there had never been time. No time for kids either. It was hard enough for a woman in journalism without taking time out for kids. Most of her friends that had kids had gone to seed, abandoned hope and ambition. Tilpa was not much of a place for kids either. School of the Air, no friends, no motivation. Tilpa was no place for kids. So what was life about with no career and no kids and no friends. Tilpa was killing her she told Russ.

They agreed she would go to Sydney for Easter. Visit friends and family and do some shopping. They could not find anyone to look after the pub so he would stay. She was away two weeks or maybe three. When she returned she was quiet, talked little about Sydney or their old friends, drank a bit more than usual. He hardly noticed. Then last night she said she was leaving.

Russ shook himself out of his daydream. It was probably time. He took the shotgun off the bar where he had left it and broke the barrels. The spent cartridge popped out and he dropped it in the bin. The live cartridge sat there, loaded, ready. The barrels snapped shut and Russ stood up slowly, looked around the room for the last time and walked out into the rain.

Ian Jones ©

UNREQUITED PASSION by Ian Jones

The haunting vision of her lovely face
Quietly disturbs my dreaming hours
Through dappled light and fragrant flowers
Upsets my equilibrium in time and space.

As life goes by at fast and furious pace
She works her gentle sweet seductive powers
To tempt me with the lure of scented bowers
And touch me soft in every secret place.

This dream I dream must be resolved for me
To catch the nymph and somehow hold her fast
A cage I’ll craft from love and silken thread
Hide her away where no one else can see.

Some magic spells of hope for her I’ll cast
To work a miracle by Cupid’s arrow sped.

Ian Jones, Clifton. ©

A SONNET TO AGE by Ian Jones

I feel it now when I arise at dawn
My body like a question mark
The legacy of bones and tendons torn
A tired old dog that somewhere lost his bark.

My face records the dramas of my life
A line, a scar for every desperate day
An expression not reflective of the strife
That haunts my memories of a troubled way.

Half the friends my schooldays made are dead
Some lost, some ravaged, some just strayed
Most never made it to the dreams we had
When dreams were dreamed and games were played
The joys of life are sweet for those who dare
But age a privilege only some of us will share

Ian Jones, Clifton ©