À PARTE ISSO, TENHO EM MIM TODOS OS SONHOS DO MUNDO *

A man must dream a long time  

in order to act with grandeur,   

and dreaming is nursed in darkness. 

- Jean Genet    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[ * Title: Álvaro de Campos in Tabacaria ]

 

 

Ana Vassalo

Jul 2, 2015







THE BOOK OF LETTERS - 'WILD IS THE WIND' - JAY

　

We can never go home
We no longer have one

Our blood is cold
And we're alone
But I'm alone with you

Help me carry the fire
It will light our way forever

So long, pal...

Soube há dias, apenas. Mas não vamos falar de sorte, iríamos discordar.

 

Fica aqui, para ti, sei que ias gostar.

 

Os Dead Combo estão em ambas mas eu escolhi assim, dividir para somar.

 

Para o bem e para o mal, sabes que sou assim.

 

Mas saudade mata. Devagarinho, devastadora. Corroendo.

 

Agarro-me à marca que deixaste no mundo, ancoro num lugar de paz.

 

Um cais na madrugada. Lisboa ao fundo.

 

Não é mau, para entretantos.

 

Will you watch over me? I know you will.

 And don't forget the music.

 

Até já, meu querido.

　　

ouvi o texto muito ao longe

 

era o teu corpo na demanda

não me parecia escrito hoje

mas hoje quis tarefa branda

a de curar a ferida ao sol

no claro-escuro da varanda

e só depois

para já depois ao certo

me fiz ao corpo teu por perto

ouvindo o texto muito ao longe

　escrevinhando o sol bate hoje

cartas de amor como o sol manda

vermelha caixa aço pintado

destinatário demasiado

na virtual ida ao deserto

escrevi ao corpo teu por perto

na quente pele como o sol manda

real regresso do deserto

a tua pele muito ao de longe

era o meu texto na demanda

não me parecia escrito hoje

mas hoje quis tarefa branda

a de curar a ferida ao sol

no claro-escuro da varanda

　ouvi o texto muito ao longe

não me parecia escrito hoje

 

não me parecia escrito hoje.

 

SÉRGIO GODINHO, 'Ouvi o texto muito ao longe'

　

　

DEAD COMBO - ESSE 'OLHAR' QUE ERA SÓ TEU

 

 

　

in YouTube - "DoTempoDosSonhos"

　

Ana Vassalo
Jun 17, 2017

(Related to March, 2017)
 

MÃE

 

2016, aniversário de black friday, desaparece para o mundo Fidel. Data importante, então, que, em circunstâncias outras, me guardaria para debate. Pelas melhores ou piores razões, discute-se por aí, afinal, e eu... Eu quero lá saber.

Importa, sim, que foi também esse o dia que escolheste para despedida. Após cinco dias de indizível sofrimento - carregados de uma tal ironia que parecia menorizar estes últimos nove anos que te sequestraram em doença e total imobilidade, assim como se fosse pouco, insuficiente para declaração - tomaste o assunto em mãos, fechaste o ciclo e decidiste, por fim, descansar. Escassas horas depois do nosso desalentado boa noite.

 

Saíste, discretamente. Escoltada pela noite, madrugada cedo, de mansinho, como sempre, tu.

 

Tu, que eras tão importante, minha Mãe grande, tão mais que a desagregada maioria, na tua bondade sem tréguas. É fácil tomar o mundo do amor quando se alberga um coração de passarinho, como o teu: todos são bons, existirá sempre, seja onde e como for, uma razão outra na origem de cada má escolha, atitude, erro, que temos de saber buscar e a obrigação de entender.

 

Só por isto, mas muito, tanto mais, essa imperdoável sexta feira deste ano de todos os castigos seria o dia da perda maior para todos os que te amavam, e mesmo para os que mal te conheciam mas a quem, de alguma maneira por inventar, que sempre acabavas por resolver, descobrias como chegar e aconchegar.

 

E foi essa a tua força de vida maior, que soubeste tornar verdadeiramente humana: a todos saber chegar. Ainda que o teu próprio mundo teimasse em ruir, repetida, recorrentemente, atingindo-te como um raio. Vezes sem conta, sem fim, até ao fim.

 

Estou agora ainda mais só, apesar do tanto amor, o imenso carinho que me tem rodeado estes dias, por quem sempre esteve a meu lado, tu sabes, e até por inesperadas mas fortes presenças que muito me têm surpreendido as convicções. Só, por dentro de mim. Tenho tantas saudades tuas, minha querida, mas não sei como dizer-to.

 

Que o tempo eterno te seja amigo, como mereces.

 

Até já, Mãezinha.

 

 

Novembro 25, 2016

____________

 

For these last 9 years I 've been writing to my mother, though posting only a few poems. This one, in english 'cause i wanted everyone to know her, was written exactly one week before she passed away, when her health condition was still under control.

 

 

‘… Cry, cry!

You Poets of my country

Trunks of the one single root

Of life that brought us together

And should'nt you be by my side

Then there would be no fado

Nor fadistas such as I’

 

- “Madness” refrain, written by Júlio de Sousa

 

 

 

This is fado. I was raised by its side. My mother was a stunning fado singer who never pursued a career. She was very popular in her youth and known way far from her home land, a tiny village in Alentejo.

 

Many years later, here in Lisbon, someone I had just met, a taxi driver who used to be friends with her during their youth, once told me: “we used to walk from the railway station up to the village, and when she was performing outdoors, at the main square, her voice echoed so clean, so magic and beautiful through those hills, it was such a special, overwhelming emotion, that we felt like God was talking to us”. His words.

 

But she never took a cent from those shows: though she was poor, she always donated her earnings to institutions specially the fire department, and i only knew about this when i moved to work in Alentejo, at age 44, and people who still talk about her let me know this and many other sweet stories about her. She was a rare beauty, they said, woman and soul.

 

At 17 (1951) she was offered a 2 year contract to sing in Belgium but her parents wouldn’t allow her to move abroad. She was forever devastated. But she was strong as hell. Period.

One day, I was 18, she was 40, we were attending a party at Mila’s - my cousin that I love like a sister - and as she always used to she asked my mother to sing. A young couple sitting near me immediately reacted and started complaining: oh no, not fado, not now!, the guy said, but beautiful Mila, wearing her most enchanting smile, politely asked him to shut the hell up.

 

So, my mom started to sing, acapella, and everyone in that garden suddenly became the witness of the purest silence a crowd can hold – the essential condition to listen to fado. She sounded much like young Amália but she was unique. At a certain point, I looked around and it had happened again: tears were rolling down everyone’s faces - no news, it was the usual reaction - but then I remembered to look at him, the complaining guy, and i noticed he was looking down, firmly facing the ground like he was staring at the grass... cause he was crying too. And this I will never forget.

 

When I was 8, my parents split up. It was mother’s decision, for so many, repeated, obvious reasons. And then she locked herself up in her room for a week, drinking milk only and having a sony tape recorder for her only company. Only I was allowed to enter that room. And for a week she sang to that tape recorder: it was her scream, her struggle to survive. And not before this she was able to let the tears out.

 

This is fado, when watched alive. Beautifully sung, like Amália did or, in this case, in Ana Moura’s rendition, you’ll have no words to describe it. But you have to be right there, with the singer. They carry us to another place from another reality within each one of us. And yet, only a few can do it, cause a great voice is mandatory and yet not enough to sing fado. And in my opinion, there’s only a few fadistas who carry the gift. They do not just sing it, they breathe, live and rise in it.

 

Mother was one of them. She can’t even speak today, her vocal cords are paralysed and she was subject to surgery 2 years ago. Strangely enough, she cannot stand listening to fado anymore. When she hears it on tv, her face shows she’s crying (she can’t cry anymore either) and she keeps moving her head left and right, stating a “no”.

This is “fado”, which also means “fate”. And this is he-art.

 

That’s where my mother’s incredible strength has always lived, right inside her beautiful, pure heart.

Nov 18, 2016

 

 

ANA MOURA – LOUCURA (MADNESS)

 

 

YouTube: “Rita6ouveia”

 

 

 

 

 

Ana Vassalo

Dec 2, 2016

 

 

Em três dias vira-se o mundo ao contrário. Para nos situar.
Depois, resta esperar. Só para saber.
Escolho acreditar em milagres, dadas as opções. Para esquecer que não sei nada de coisa nenhuma.
Parece que estamos irreversivelmente ligados ao presente, dizem-me, e tenho de aceitar essas incontornáveis inevitabilidades. Mas só já consigo viver no futuro.
E mais uma vez sei: o que mais custa do mundo é o futuro. Vive de ruas escondidas.

Bom, mesmo, seria conseguir falar sobre estas coisas... Com gente, e não bytes. Mas isso nunca foi para mim. E é, realmente, muito pouco o que logramos mudar pelo caminho. 

De resto, não tenho muito a dizer. Apenas que Ela merecia bem melhor. 

É o que, imersa nesta quase prostração, me cabe declarar.
Mas é o que temos. E há quem, com convicção, goste de o reconhecer como Vida. Ainda bem.
É por isso que ainda espero que ela dê pelo nome que escolheu e se lembre do da minha Mãe.



Nov 23, 2016

'A THOUSAND KISSES DEEP'

                                                                     “ ‘Well Marianne it's come to this time when we are really so old
                                                                        and our bodies are falling apart and I think I will follow you
                                                                        very soon. Know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch
                                                                        out your hand, I think you can reach mine, ”
                                                                     “ 'And you know that I've always loved you for your beauty and
                                                                        your wisdom, but I don't need to say anything more about that
                                                                        because you know all about that. But now, I just want to wish
                                                                        you a very good journey. Goodbye old friend. Endless love, see
                                                                        you down the road.'”

                                                                                                                               in RollingStone, Aug 7, 2016

Teria eu qualquer coisa como uns dezoito anos, quando li algures uma curiosidade cultural que me revolucionou e mergulhou em caos prévias teorias e convicções.

Foram alguns, os livros com este efeito sobre mim, uns mais pragmáticos, outros subjectivos. Sucede que neste, em particular, a autora, uma americana de muitas e polémicas vivências, contava, pela voz do seu protagonista posto em modo de confidência com um amigo, que os Índios, quando sentem completa a viagem, simplesmente decidem que é chegado o seu momento. E então, deitam-se no chão, viram-se para a parede e serenamente aguardam o desfecho natural que a sua vontade decretou. [Morrer é chegar, certo? Resta saber onde, quando estamos tão longe em tempo espiritual e espaço intelectual dos monges medievais que o poderiam explicar, embora possamos adivinhar-lhes a intenção e ainda que cepticamente.] E acontece, alegadamente. Eles, os Índios, lá ‘chegam’.

Verdade ou patranha, certo é que registei aquele estranhíssimo, incrédulo momento de informação, que se me agarrou para a vida. Porque, contra todas as probabilidades de tudo o que me conhecia e em que me revia, a simples ideia da coisa sitiou-me.

Por isso, quando há pouco mais de dois meses li a tua carta de despedida - e nota que a reli várias vezes - soube que não tardarias. Quem escreve uma tal carta a uma mulher, amor presente ou passado, quer mesmo segui-la. E por senti-lo tão fortemente, não fui capaz de publicá-la, como me tinha inicialmente proposto, assim como quem quer, a qualquer preço, negar uma inevitabilidade.

Cá estamos hoje, notícias na mão, e mais uns quantos sonhos rasgados em realidade. O tempo não pára, por mais que, sabiamente, devesse abrir excepções. Está-se nas tintas. Ou vê melhor...

E no entanto, sabes?, resguardo-me nesta consolação de que já em vida eras eterno. Há pessoas assim, para júbilo de uns poucos, congenitamente perdidos num mundo decrépito, pejado de almas tão comuns, abrigadas num despovoamento que destrói.

Nessa escada que vamos escalando sem nenhum fim à vista, existe um degrau em que, subitamente, nos cremos capazes de lhe pôr fim. De a controlar para vencer. E se a vontade é forte e genuína, acreditamos conseguir. Para que a amarga e estridente voz que ciclicamente se hospeda na mente se cale em sossego, por fim.

Marianne estará, certamente, esperando por ti, com uma cadeirinha vaga, a seu lado, para te acolher em ternura e descanso num lugar esculpido de sol a fogo, harpas de mar e coração. Não estão sós, de resto: uma sobrevivente Utopia de loucos poetas da vida se vai erguendo numa ilha de imortais. No teu disfarce de rio, é lá, desde sempre, que tens lugar cativo.

Até ao fim do amor, então.

So long, dear Poet.

 

 

IF IT BE YOUR WILL - LIVE DUET W/ ANJANI THOMAS - WARSAW, 1985

 

«There is, on both sides of this struggle, men of good will. That is important to remember.»

 YouTube: "messalina 79"

 

 

 

A THOUSAND KISSES DEEP

 

«no matter if the road is long / no matter if it's deep /

no matter if the moon is gone / and the darkness is complete»

 

YouTube: "natales"

 

 

Ana Vassalo

Nov 11, 2016

NOBEL 2016 __ THE TIMES THEY ARE A-CHANGIN' !

 

MR. BOB DYLAN, of course! 

 

Born Robert Allen Zimmerman, May 24, 1941, American singer-songwriter, artist and writer, Bob Dylan is the  winner of the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature!

 

[ E eis que logo surgem as vozes e os ais, num desassossego de almas atormentadas, em transe auto-induzido. Ou, clarificando, daquele certo tipo, bem conhecido, de críticos com cotovelos problemáticos. ]

Ah... que século pequenino, este XXI, se vive nesta aldeia global...

 

Pois se nem alguns desses exemplares que se assumem poetas, autores e agregados títulos comparados por via exclusiva de trocas comerciais, do alto da sua cátedra intelectual de Cafetaria, conseguem discernir que, não só para os USA mas para  o mundo que se debateu sonhando a liberdade, a obra de Bob Dylan foi muito além, gigantescamente mais do que apenas folk, blues ou rock&roll (e já seria tanto!), então são esses os mesmos, seguidos  por turba privada obediente e incondicional, que jamais reconhecerão a mudança não só necessária mas inevitável aos tempos de cada tempo.

 

Porque para que eles mudem é preciso saber chegar ao mundo que os habita, às multidões que nele se conformam em desânimo. E chegar muito e depressa, por qualquer meio que eficazmente o propicie: pela música, então, que assume, reconhecidamente, o mais elevado nível dessa eficácia. E, sabiamente à boleia da mesma, pela palavra que urge ser ouvida, a despertar consciências, a exaltar vontades dormentes.

 

Foi essa a casta de palavras que os extraordinários poemas cantados de Bob Dylan,  belíssimos, inteligentes, emissários de uma nova linguagem de raiz urbana,  interventivos e subversores da corrupta ordem estabelecida, fizeram desfilar com eco, durante décadas, na sua música.

 

Não perceber isto, não entender a sua importância global no chamamento para a primeira linha dos acontecimentos mundiais das várias gerações em luta pelo direito à liberdade individual e colectiva, através da acção aglutinadora e sincreticamente conciliadora de toda a diferença que a música tão bem sabe esbater e aproximar, é personificar, sem vestígio de sombra, uma atitude hirta, de incontornável apego a grilhetas elitistas,  a visão curta e redutora de gente, enfim, que há muito está morta, não percebeu e não foi informada, paz à sua alma. Tudo o que a poesia, afinal, não comporta e não tolera.

 

Porque, custe, embora, o muito que custar, Bob Dylan não é um letrista mas um Poeta.

 

Observando, menos,  ou ignorando, mais,  cabe-nos a escolha de audiência a prestar a tamanhos, ilustres dignitários da cultura papelónica,  enredados em arrepelo e empurrão por estéreis polémicas desta vida  a que já todos nos habituámos, de resto, se nos lembrarmos do exemplo de Ary dos Santos, que essa mesma (suposta) "elite"  em avançado estágio de esclerosamento teima em menorizar.

 

Sendo que,  de poetas espartilhados, intelectuais de fancaria, cátedra bafienta de antiga e mediocridade branqueada, bem como outros similares exemplos do fake "erudito", informa o próprio tempo estar para lá de cansado.

 

THE . TIMES . THEY . ARE . A-CHANGIN'. Full stop.

 

Conformem-se. 'Perguntem ao vento'. Ou matem-se, se vos der mais jeito. Alternativamente, podem sempre partir em demanda de Mr. Tambourine Man, que, quem sabe, talvez vos arranje qualquer coisita eficaz para matar desgostos. Perceberiam, claro, se não fossem tão dramaticamente canhestros.

 

Por aqui, mora alguém, que por acaso sou eu, sim, bem feliz por esta escolha para o NOBEL da Literatura 2016.

 

Cheers, BOB! These are your times!

And always will be.

BLOWIN' IN THE WIND

[ 1962 ]

 

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes 'n' how many years can a mountain exist
Before it is washed to the sea?
Yes 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes 'n' how many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn't see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes 'n' how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes 'n' how many deaths will it take 'til he knows
That too many people have died?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

 

 

 ___________

 

 

 

I SHALL BE RELEASED

a 1967 song written by Dylan

 

BOB DYLAN singing with 'THE BAND' & FRIENDS in "THE LAST WALTZ", 1976

 

 

 

 

 They say everything can be replaced
They say every distance is not near
So I remember every face
Of every man who put me here

I see my light come shinin'
From the west down to the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released

They say every man needs protection
They say that every man must fall
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Somewhere so high above this wall

I see my light come shinin'
From the west down to the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released

 Down yonder in this lonely crowd
There's a man who swears he's not to blame
All day long I hear him shouting loud
 Cryin' out that he'd been framed

I see my light come shinin'
From the west down to the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released

 

 

Ana Vassalo

Oct 13, 2016

 

 

 



ON DIT...

                                                                                                    i was born lost

                                                                                    and take no pleasure
                                         in being found
 

                                - John Steinbeck

 

 

 

 

my mind is my place

when i sit by the silence of the trees

 

 

skies are young
and home is a cottage in the fields of thought

any instant

of every living moment
that is where the heart
      of all things
      beginning or ending
beats passionately faster.

      alive.

 

i live in my mind.

'... and please let me always'

Ana Vassalo

Sep 19, 2016

THE BOOK OF LETTERS - Cigarros

in Storming Heaven – Wordpress

           














          

Tinha uma caixa linda, de prata velha, que o avô de alguém, num dia de há muitas eras, me fez herdar. Perdeu significado, ela que chegou carregada de amor. Os tempos desajustados em diferenças inconciliáveis rasgam e ensinam. Depois, roubaram-ma, como que a lembrar a reposição devida dos factos. A verdade em mutação. Para a história, importa apenas que tinha por missão ser guardiã de cigarros. Nunca partilhados.

E tu, ofereces-me uma cigarreira? Uma caixinha solidária e amiga que saiba dividir-se pelas noites? Porque, sabes, haverá sempre um qualquer resto de tabaco em prevenção, a juntar fragmentos que se perderam da unidade.

Eu trago a vodka, faço o café. Tu, chegas com as marés. E um cigarro para mim. Dançamos?

Comentas, algures num intervalo de razões, que é o tempo de partir juntos. As malas ficam para trás. Skating the night sky, dizia eu, há uns quantos anos de suaves crenças, inventando o instante de encontrar-te.

E então, disfarçamo-nos de céu? Eu, de cometa, naturalmente - já tenho a ‘cabeleira’. Tu escolhes, depois dizes-me. Ainda assim, previno-me e levo no bolso um disfarce de lua, para o caso de te perderes na escolha. Havemos de descobri-la, tímida ou fugitiva, noite em jornada. Por nós.

Há vidas que nasceram paz. Sei que sabes. E um cigarro na madrugada há-de sempre resolver os mundos.

Depois, largamos pela cidade que nos pertence, Lisboa como pele, cais de encontros do futuro com a justiça. Vamos pelas estrelas, que se perdem nos teus olhos de tormentas quando se acertam pelos meus.

           Um dia, tocas para mim?

Espero-te às tantas, em Santa Luzia. Tu trazes o rio, não se fala mais nisso.

           Cartas. Não esqueças, sou estas cartas.

Fazemos assim: eu dou-te um cigarro quando a noite te abandonar. E sento-me contigo até que ela se arrependa.

             Não te quero triste, não quero.
A noite escreve-se com o teu nome.

Ana Vassalo

Ago 19, 2016

ARISTIDES DE SOUSA MENDES - 'PORTUGAL'S SCHINDLER' (ABOUT CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE)

The Portuguese consul-general in Bordeaux

  during WW2 who saved over 30,000 lives.

 

 "It was actually my intention to save all those people"

 

Aristides de Sousa Mendes do Amaral e Abranches (July 19, 1885 – April 3, 1954) was a Portuguese consul during World War II.

As the Portuguese consul-general in the French city of Bordeaux, he defied the orders of António de Oliveira Salazar's Estado Novo regime, issuing visas and passports to an undetermined number of refugees fleeing Nazi Germany, including Jews. For this, Sousa Mendes was punished by the Salazar regime. Sousa Mendes was vindicated in 1988, more than a decade after the Carnation Revolution that toppled the Estado Novo.

For his efforts to save Jewish refugees, Sousa Mendes was recognized by Israel as one of the Righteous Among the Nations, the first diplomat to be so honored, in 1966.

___________

 

'Portugal's Schindler' Is Remembered, Decades After His Life-Saving Deeds

August 4, 2016  5:21 AM ET

Heard on Morning Edition

     

 

ELEANOR BEARDSLEY

   

Those who were helped by Portugal's consul general, Aristides de Sousa Mendes, during World War II assemble outside the former Portuguese consulate in Bordeaux. Sousa Mendes issued 10,000 visas to Jews including Stephen Rozenfeld (center front, in blue), George Helft (center front, in white) and Lissy Jarvik (3rd from right), before being recalled and dismissed from the diplomatic service. Eleanor Beardsley/NPR

A group of about 50 people gathered in late June in the sunny courtyard of the Portuguese consulate in Bordeaux, France. It was from here in 1939 and 1940 that Portuguese diplomat Aristides de Sousa Mendes do Amaral e Abranches issued approximately 30,000 visas to Jews and other stateless refugees.

Lissy Jarvik, who lives today in California, was one of them.

"I was a recipient of a Sousa Mendes visa," she tells the group. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here. I would've no longer been alive 72 years ago."

Jarvik was just 16 when her Jewish family fled their home in the Netherlands in 1940. She's come back to France today with her two sons. They are part of a group, including visa recipients and their descendants, making a 10-day pilgrimage tracing the escape route taken through France, Spain and Portugal. It was from Portugal that they finally got out of Europe.

This group is also paying tribute to Sousa Mendes, the man who made their lives possible.

 

 

 Aristides de Sousa Mendes in 1940.

Courtesy of Sousa Mendes Foundation

 

 

While the heroic stories of others who saved Jews during World War II are better known — such as German industrialist Oskar Schindler, who saved Jews by employing them in his factory — the story of Sousa Mendes, who saved the lives of 10 times as many Jews as Schindler, has remained relatively unknown.

But that is changing.

Jarvik says she always assumed the Portuguese government had issued her family's visas to get out of France. Portugal was neutral during the war. But its Fascist dictator, Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, had actually issued orders banning Jews, Russians and stateless people from entering the country.

Sousa Mendes, his country's consul general in Bordeaux, knowingly disobeyed those orders, frantically signing visas day and night just before he was recalled to Lisbon in late June 1940.

At each stop along the way of this pilgrimage, covering a route including Bordeaux, Salamanca and Lisbon, people give testimonials. Some read old letters from late family members who escaped. But George Helft reaches back into his own memory. He was 6 when his family fled Paris, as the Nazis entered the city in June 1940.

"It's difficult for me to describe the roads then," he says. "But I remember them very, very well. They were filled with baby carriages, old cars with mattresses on the roof and six people inside. Thousands of people were walking, some with wheelbarrows, and of course everyone going south."

Helft's extended family got out of France and was able to reach New York. He only recently found out this was all because of Sousa Mendes.

Olivia Mattis, president of the Sousa Mendes Foundation, based in Huntington, N.Y., says it wasn't until 2011 that volunteers with the recently formed organization began to identify visa recipients. They were able to do so by comparing the names on a ledger from the Bordeaux Portuguese consulate, found in the mid-1990s, with ship passenger lists. While the ledger only gave the name of the head of the family, the ships listed every single passenger.

Retired U.S. newspaper editor Rebel Good (right) holds his Dutch-born mother's passport, showing the signature of Sousa Mendes. His mother never spoke about her escape from Europe. After her death, "I opened the passport up to the center, and the visa was there with Aristides de Sousa Mendes' signature on it," says Good. "It was a very moving and chilling moment." Eleanor Beardsley/NPR

Retired American newspaper editor Rebel Good remembers getting a call four years ago at his home in North Carolina.

"It was from someone who said he was with a foundation," says Good. "At first, I thought he was asking me for money. But he brought me up short by asking me pretty quickly if I were the son of Annelies Kaufmann."

Good says his late mother never talked about her escape from Europe. After the call, he dug out her old Dutch passport.

"And I opened the passport up to the center, and the visa was there with Aristides de Sousa Mendes' signature on it," says Good. "It was a very moving and chilling moment to see that connection just come forward."

Since 2011, nearly 4,000 visa recipients have been identified. Another is 82-year-old Stephen Rozenberg. When he was 5, he fled Lodz, Poland, with his family.

Stephen Rozenberg and daughter Leah Sills were among those gathered to honor Sousa Mendes' memory. Rozenberg holds a photograph showing him and his mother when he was five, when he and his family received Portuguese visas and fled France. Eleanor Beardsley/NPR

 

"We never knew what happened to our family when they got to Bordeaux," says Leah Sills, his daughter, who accompanied her father on the pilgrimage. "We never knew that part. And to find out that this one man sacrificed his own family and his own life for all these people is incredible."

When he was called back to Portugal in June 1940, Sousa Mendes was tried on 15 charges including violating Portugal's prohibition on visas for Jews and other stateless people. He was found guilty and dismissed from the diplomatic service. A father of 15, he was stripped of his pension and lived in poverty until his death in 1954. At his own urging, 11 of his children emigrated — some to countries in Africa and others to the U.S. and Canada.

Gerald Mendes, one of Sousa Mendes' many far-flung grandchildren, is also on the pilgrimage. He was born and grew up in Montreal. He says his grandfather was officially rehabilitated by the Portuguese government in 1988, and the family received an official apology from the president. The connections and stories pouring forth on this trip are important for his grandfather's legacy, he says.

"The story of each refugee is a new brick in the story of Sousa Mendes," he says. "But all these testimonies are especially important, because the story needs to be documented for the future to fight Holocaust deniers. Especially as survivors die out."

Many members of this group are struck by the parallel with what's happening with refugees around the world today. Visa recipient Helft ends his testimonial with a plea for acceptance.

"Forget about walls," he says. "Walls with Mexico, walls in Israel. Of course, accepting a flow of refugees, there are undesirables. How many? One percent? Think of all the others. Think of the children who are escaping horrors."

in    n  p  r     parallels MANY STORIES, ONE WORLD

http://www.npr.org/sections/parallels/2016/08/04/486735086/remembering-portugals-schindler

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Ana Vassalo
Aug 4, 2016