Short Stories

Part I That morning – in March 1962 - I was trying to feel at home in my office in the Japanese Block of the University of Singapore. Conscience prompted me to concentrate on the examination scripts I had to mark. But as was to be expected, every candidate sought to demonstrate his knowledge of the entire subject and failed to deal with the hidden issues. Worse still, many examinees recapitulated some of the jokes I had cracked in my lectures. Was I as poor a raconteur as my students? ...

[*This story reflects my outlook of 1984. My Viennese alter ego – the emotive and impetuous voice – has been subdued some time ago but still flickers occasionally*] The episode I am about to relate took place during a four-month study leave which I spent in Hamburg in 1984. Apart from its horrid climate – Hamburg suited me. Its reserved people were glad to leave you alone. Yet, they remained fair in their dealings. ...

Djaimie Vidjaya’s performance was breathtaking. True, his dancing rhythm was too vigorous, too stormy, to be elegant. But his self-assured movements manifested a zest for life and an enthusiasm that compelled the patrons of the small bar to give him their attention. It bore no semblance to his pathetic appearance earlier in the day when, supported by crutches, he hopped into the church where I had been commissioned to heal him. ...

The waitress, in the small restaurant in South Melbourne, was looking at me askance. She was one of those buxom self-assured women, who prefer to be called girls and who want you to believe they were going to remain eternally youngish. She had rattled their “specials” down as soon as I was seated and, coaxingly, mentioned that the snapper and the rainbow trout were real fresh. Although I was the first customer she was now standing there restlessly, overtly resenting that, instead of ordering one of these dishes, I had proceeded with a conscientious perusal of the menu. “A slow operator” – was written all over her face and the assessment, I suspected, was not confined to my standing as a patron of the establishment. ...

“Faith is in the heart of the believer”. An episode in the life of our School’s Principal, Dr. Joseph Katz – nicknamed Sheen on account of his shining pie bald head – drives the point home. During Sheen’s long life, I feared that making the story public might add insult to the injury we – his callous pupils – inflicted on him in his heyday. Recently, though, I received the obituary written about the late Dr Katz by my old bosom pal, “Pilkin” – originally answering to Chayim Rosenberg but currently known as Rabbi Loeb Zohar. When I finished reading the moving composition, it dawned on me that the story need no longer be regarded as privileged. I abandon my discretion willingly! Freedom of speech – as we all know – is the paramount privilege conferred on ordinary humans – including a mendicant professor - in our enlightened era. ...

The story of Ermintrude was told to me by Joseph Stölzl, nicknamed Peppi, who had been the bosom pall of my late father. It took place at the beginning of the 20th century, when the Habsburg Empire was still intact. I met Peppi years later – after the end of World War II. By then, Peppi had risen in the world, had settled in London and became Sir Joseph-Dieter von Stölzenfeld. ...

[This story isn’t just about a stolen wallet. It’s about what we keep, what we lose or choose to forget and about the strange decency and perception that sometimes reveals itself in unexpected places] A short trip from our hotel in Zurich took us to the town’s airport-terminal. When the attendant put my luggage on the scale, I wanted to get out my wallet with my credit cards so as to pay a surcharge. To my dismay it was gone: I had been pickpocketed. ...

A few weeks ago, just before the annual feast of Purim, which in 2017 fell in March, I went to the small shop in our synagogue in Waterloo Street in downtown Singapore to buy a new Ratchet (Ra’ashan in Hebrew). This musical percussion instrument consists of a gearwheel and a stiff board mounted on a handle. When rotated rapidly by the holder, it emits a piercing rattle. It figures when the Scroll of Esther is read out. ...

Four elephants grace a shelf in my bedroom. To me, each has a special meaning. They were given to me as I climbed up my professional and personal ladder. The first elephant, made of sterling silver, is a fine replica. The original, which I lost years ago during one of my many moves, was given to me as a Bar-Mitzvah gift. For those unfamiliar with Jewish folklore, it is relevant to mention that when a Jewish boy turns thirteen, he ceases to be a child and must observe all rituals. One of his duties is to be called up to the Torah-reading-podium where he has to recite the Haftara – a passage of the bible earmarked for the occasion. ...

Five figurines grace the show cabinets housing my porcelain collection. The earliest figurine was produced in the factory of Claudius du Pacquier, which was founded in Vienna in 1718. It is a Turk, modeled and fired around 1730. He sits crossed legged on a cushion. His right hand commands a troop or band. The Turk’s powerful, perhaps even threatening, expression belies his minute size. Porcelain experts took the view that this Turk might have been intended to serve as a tureen’s finial; but I have my doubts. He has his own vocation. He is a leader and not altogether benign. His object is to implement the Sultan’s policy. Nobody would use this Turk as the mere finial of a larger object. ...