Ecoliterature by Professor Julia Evergreen Keefer

InNovember of 1918 my mother resolved to flee with Sebastian and myself from thedangers of Russia. Revolution was in full swing, frontiers were closed. Shegot in touch with a man who had made smuggling refugees across the border hisprofession, and it was settled that for a certain fee, one half of which waspaid in advance, he would get us to Finland. We were to leave the train justbefore the frontier, at a place we could lawfully reach, and then cross over bysecret paths, doubly, trebly secret owing to the heavy snowfalls in that silentregion. At the starting point of our train-journey, we found ourselves, mymother and I, waiting for Sebastian, who, with the heroic help of CaptainBelov, was trundling the luggage from house to station. The train wasscheduled to start at 8:40 A. M. Half past and still no Sebastian. Our guidewas already in the train and sat quietly reading a newspaper; he had warned mymother that in no circumstance should she talk to him in public, and as thetime passed and the train was preparing to leave, a nightmare feeling of numbpanic began to come over us. We knew that the man in accordance with thetraditions of his profession, would never renew a performance that had misfiredat the outset. We knew too that we could not again afford the expenses offlight. The minutes passed and I felt something gurgling desperately in thepit of my stomach. The thought that in a minute or two the train would moveoff and that we should have to return to a dark cold attic (our house had beennationalised some months ago) was utterly disastrous. On our way to thestation we had passed Sebastian and Belov pushing the heavily burdenedwheelbarrow through the crunching snow. The picture now stood motionlessbefore my eyes (I was a boy of thirteen and very imaginative) as a charmedthing doomed to its paralysed eternity. My mother, her hands in her sleevesand a wisp of grey hair emerging from beneath her woolen kerchief, walked toand fro, trying to catch the eye of our guide every time she passed by hiswindow. Eight-forty-five, eight-fifty . . . The train was late in starting,but at last the whistle blew, a rush of warm white smoke raced its shadowacross the brown snow on the platform, and at the same time Sebastian appearedrunning, the earflaps of his fur cap flying in the wind. The three of usscrambled into the moving train. It took some time before he managed to tellus that Captain Belov had been arrested in the street just as they were passingthe house where he had lived before, and that leaving the luggage to its fate,he, Sebastian, had made a desperate dash for the station. A few months laterwe learned that our poor friend had been shot, together with a score of peoplein the same batch, shoulder to shoulder with Palchin, who died as bravely asBelov. (pages 24-25)—->

Much is made of the window sill, where Lorre writes his missivesto the press.

Madame Trévins would help her to light a fire in the fireplace, open the windows, and air the mattresses. She who had four gardeners at Pantin to tend the lawns, flowerbeds, bushes, and hedges surrounding the works couldn’t even manage to find a local man to keep an eye on the garden. Saint-Mouezy, which used to be a sizable little market town, was now a merejuxtaposition of houses restored as second homes, empty all week and chock-fullon Saturdays and Sundays with townsfolk who, as they brandished their Moreauhand-drills, their Moreau circular saws, their Moreau portable work-benches,their Moreau all-purpose ladders, laid bare old beams and old stone, hung coachlamps, and rallied to the attack on barns and cartstalls.


The Films of Fritz Lang - by Michael E. Grost

Carolee’s is the second issue of The Magazine of the Artist’s Institute

"It concerns me that they are doing something they shouldn'tbe doing, particularly since there are there the most seriousremains of the Second Temple period which can be found on theTemple Mount," Bahat said. "I am very concerned abouttheir fate." He said that the window probably doesn't poseany threat since it is high above ground level. Bahat also saidthat the entire lower Al-Aksa area has never been excavated properlyand that now is an opportunity to finally carry out excavations.(Jerusalem Post) Posted August 10, 1999.