Littérature scientifique sur le sujet « Cape Jewish Orphanage »

In her narrative Bronisława Guza (born in 1929) talks about the life of her family in Obertyn – a small town in the former Stanisławów province – starting from 1930s and WW2 period, to the post-war years when she came to Lower Silesia. In her recollections she describes places that played an important role in the town’s life: Saints Peter and Paul’s church and priests serving in it, a convent belonging to the Congregation of the Servants of the Holiest Virgin Mary of the Immaculate Conception from Stara Wieś, along with an orphanage run by the nuns (which she used to attend as a child), the market square on market days, various shops, houses, a mound made to commemorate the battle of Obertyn in 1531, as well as a cross standing on its top. She tells us about relations between Obertyn’s inhabitants: Poles, Ukrainians and Jews – how they established and maintained close bonds, together celebrated holidays and weddings, participated in funerals, and so on – and about mutual respect for other denominations and customs. Bronisława Guza’s story of WW2 contains recollections of the Soviet and German occupations, circumstances of the Soviet re-entering at the end of March and at the beginning of April 1944, and of the activity of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists on these territories. The key moment for this time in history was in 1945, when a vast majority of the Polish community of Obertyn was resettled to the Western Territories. Bronisława Guza and her family ended up in Siedlce near Oława, where initially she lived together with the German, evangelical community of the village. The inhabitants settled down in the new place and tried to adapt to the new life conditions.

Cohen-Janka, Irène. Mister Doctor: Janusz Korczak and the Orphans of the Warsaw Ghetto. Illus. Maurizio A.C. Quarello. Trans. Paula Ayer. Toronto: Annic Press, 2015.When the human order descends into madness, the heroes are those who remain humane. One such hero was a Polish national, the “Mister Doctor” of this story. Born into a Jewish family as Henryk Goldzsmit, he became better known by his nom de plume, Janusz Korczak, under which he wrote popular books for children. A trained physician, he served his country as a military doctor in World War I. When peace came, he turned his attention to pediatrics. He shared, through radio broadcasts, his enlightened ideas for child rearing. These ideas he put into practice in Warsaw as the head of an orphanage for Jewish children. Mister Doctor provides an account of his last years as he struggled to bring hope and comfort to the orphans following the Nazi occupation of Poland in World War II.The narrative voice of Mister Doctor is haunting, for it is a voice from the grave. Simon, the child narrator, relates events as the Nazis repeatedly relocate Korczak and his young charges, first, from the security of their orphanage into the nightmare of the Warsaw Ghetto and, from there, into the death bound trains that would transport them to the extermination camp at Treblinka. We see through Simon’s eyes how Korczak, defying the climate of deprivation, attempts to retain at least some of those things that are vital to childhood: a sense of play, the assurance of love, the comforting presence of an attentive adult.Cohen-Janka has created in Simon a youthful and unadorned voice that will speak to children in upper elementary and junior high school. Maurizio Quarello’s somber, realistic, charcoal drawings, are masterful works that would speak to any age. Excellent end notes give further details of Janusz Korczak’s life.Korczak, like other men of conscience, Oskar Schindler, Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King, and Canadians of our own era—Ambassador Kenneth Taylor, Roméo Dallaire, retained, under extreme duress, the courage of his convictions. In today’s world, beset as it is with sectarian violence, terrorism, and the murder and displacement of innocent people, children need to know that it is possible to be steadfastly life affirming. Parents, teachers and librarians might well share and discuss with them this story of Mister Doctor.Highly Recommended: 4 out of 4 starsReviewer: Leslie AitkenLeslie Aitken’s long career in librarianship involved selection of children’s literature for school, public, special and academic libraries. She was formerly Curriculum Librarian for the University of Alberta.

We'd eat at Cahill's, Cahill's Family Restaurants I believe they were called, and quite plushy looking ... . At Cahill's we'd eat Viennese Schnitzel, with potato salad and some nice red cabbage salad, sort of pickled ... . Even more exotic was Chicken Maryland, served with a banana and a slice of pineapple in batter. It cost 7s 6d. -- Marion Halligan (11) We migrated in the sixties. Born in Cape Town, I was raised in the heart of Jewish Bondi. The flavours of my youth? Probably equal parts peri-peri, horseradish and chicken booster, not bouquet garni. My introduction to what was 'Australian' food was had in restaurants. And yes, I remember Cahill's, though I can't tell you when exactly, or how much things cost. Mid-sixties. I knew, even then, that there were better restaurants, like the places Dad used to take us with checked tablecloths and bottles with candles dripping wax and fish nets everywhere. His favourites were Mother's Cellar and The Gap at Watson's Bay. I think it's still there. This was before they built Australia Square and Dad became obsessed with the Summit, and of course the Blue Angel, where we never doubted that the lobsters were live. Favourite dishes? I would only eat 'chicken in a basket' or spaghetti bolognaise; well, I was very young, and prone to tears. I can remember my father, losing patience and insisting, "you have a basket for the bread, just put the bloody chicken in it". I can't even remember what it was, probably the same Chicken Maryland Halligan mentions, or a cousin. Fried chicken with a battered pineapple ring and chips of course, sometimes magically grated to form a lattice. I know I enjoyed going out to eat but all meals held the prospect of tension. Visser says the tension arises from the prospect of ending up as a main course. In my case, a mere hors d'œuvre for my sarcastic oldest brother. I was the youngest and unsure how to get the best, the most, as much, or even what I wanted. I wouldn't order until I had read the whole menu, which took long enough even when it wasn't in French or Italian. The menu rarely helped me, rather it served to frustrate my entire family because they knew I was going to order spaghetti or chicken anyway, but that made no difference, the menu had to be read before ordering, and no amount of harassment could convince me otherwise. I love the thought of that child, and her passionate sense of propriety. On special occasions Dad would order Spumante and we would all have a glass, and I felt terribly sophisticated; fortunately the experience doesn't seem to have permanently damaged my palate. Spumante reminded Dad of Italy, the war, you know. Granny used to refer to this as "Henry's trip to Europe". My Dad loved the war, and I'm sure it's not all rosy nostalgia because it was the only time he got away from his family. He drove a truck and didn't have to kill anybody and all we ever heard about was the mud, the black market and the girls. So a glass of cheap, sweet fizzy brought it all back, every time, and who am I to scoff, when the merest whiff of retsina and I'm floating in the bath-flat Aegean under a hot blue sky with anybody called Jani? Cahill's, meanwhile, was in the city, in the days when you 'went to town'. Going to town was always a treat but it depended largely on with whom and why. With Mum it meant serious shopping, and though there was the promise of lunch at David Jones Cafeteria, was it worth the endless hours of torture trying on shoes that were too small and school uniforms which were too big, but of course I would grow into them? And how could a pie with sauce in a plastic packet have been a treat? Going to town with Nana was a different story. It was with some expectation that we would descend into the air-conditioned red-walled cavern that was Cahill's. What I remember about Cahill's was the occasion, and the fish and chips. Nana spent her childhood in a Dickensian orphanage and her adulthood in the North of England, waiting for my grandfather to pick a winner, so I imagine that she felt comfortable with what she knew. That she always ordered fish and chips is only strange because Nana was famous for her fish and chips, perhaps she liked to compare. And I really shouldn't find it odd when I find it difficult to order anything other than fritto misto; in two generations we've progressed to "trefe"1 but not past the deep fryer. So I'm sure that I ordered fish and chips too, or perhaps I ate some of hers, because that was the only thing to do, otherwise she would eat one piece, then look around before coughing theatrically into a serviette which she would then drop, casually, over the other piece and put it in her bag. It was absolutely awful, and we grandchildren loved it when she did that. The other thing I have to say about fish and chips is that we Jews like to eat fried fish cold, but then we don't batter the fish, just flour and egg. I suppose it forms a batter anyway but it doesn't separate from the fish, and we like a solid fish, say kingfish, while Australians seem to go for thinner fillets encased in oily batter. Cahill's did something in between. To follow, tea for Nana, while I always ate fruit salad and ice cream; this I also used to eat on our Saturday afternoon excursions to the 'Cross' which Nana said reminded her of Paris, because it was full of 'artists' like herself. So Nana would sip her tea while I ate my tinned fruit salad and we enjoyed each other and the world, and what a delight for a chatty little girl, the undivided attention of such a beloved adult. I do believe that I will never feel as grown up, ever again, as I did when I was a little girl, out for lunch with my Nana. So as you see I have a sentimental attachment to fish and chips. Their cooking and consumption have flavoured my childhood and possibly yours. The association of fish and chips with that Hanson woman2 is therefore particularly galling, and yet also pertinent. I've never believed that it's just a coincidence that she is purveyor of fish and chips; after all, fish and chips are emblematic of 'Englishness'. Hanson wants Australians to maintain their cultural identification with the mother country, she could hardly have achieved her profile were she the proprietor of a noodle shop. So as you see I have a sentimental attachment to fish and chips. Their cooking and consumption have flavoured my childhood and possibly yours. The association of fish and chips with that Hanson woman2 is therefore particularly galling, and yet also pertinent. I've never believed that it's just a coincidence that she is purveyor of fish and chips; after all, fish and chips are emblematic of 'Englishness'. Hanson wants Australians to maintain their cultural identification with the mother country, she could hardly have achieved her profile were she the proprietor of a noodle shop. Here lies the Great Divide and I fear that I may be part of the problem, not the solution. I am hoist on my hybrid petard, uncomfortably, because much as I dislike elitist Epicureanism I have seen that the reality of what we eat in this country is not always pretty. And all the best efforts of the proselytising 'foodie' media are falling on deaf or already converted ears. Back in the mother country, this battleground is already well trod: there remains something shamefaced about the acceptance of fish and chips as a component of 'Englishness' among the 'better classes' ... . This set of perceptions attaches fish and chips to potent patriotic images of land, countryside, industrial might ... and above all, the notion of Britain as a gallant seafaring notion whose little ships do battle with the elements and the foreign enemy to feed and protect the people. (Walton 2) I see Pauline, wrapped in the flag, battered hake in upraised hand ... and let's not forget that fish and chips were one of our first fast foods, at a time when there was little respite for women, often providing the only hot meal of the day, particularly for workers. Of course the practice was seen to be harmful by health care professionals. The consumption of food prepared outside the home was read as poor mothering, a breakdown in the process of policing of 'proper' families and of course no-one is sure just what sort of mother Pauline is. She appears to be estranged from her older children, a case of one Chiko Roll too many? The irony of fish and chips and Englishness is that, according to Walton, fish and chips also symbolise cultural diversity: viewed in other moods and seen from other angles, of course, the image and associations of fish and chips could be very different. They expressed ethnic diversity as well as simplistic national solidarity, from the strong East End Jewish element in the early days of fish frying in London, through the strong Italian presence in the trade from the turn of the century, in urban Scotland and Ireland especially, to the growing importance of the Chinese and Greek Cypriots in the post-Second World War decades. (2) So fish and chips have played a significant role for a number of ethnic groups. They're ours, not hers. But I'm still troubled, I need to tell the gastronomic mafia that Pacific Rim cuisine won't be Oz food until a significant number of Australians are eating it, and I'm afraid "mainstream Australia, out there" is eating extremely boring food. Could it be that the resentment against Asians is because their food is just so much better? Footnotes 1. trefe: (yiddish) animals, seafood or insects considered impure, abomination, not to be eaten under any circumstances, notably pig and shellfish. 2. Pauline Hanson was elected to the Australian Federal Parliament as an independent candidate in 1996, and soon made her presence known with outspoken comments about Aborigines, (mainly Asian) migrants, and welfare recipients [ed.]. 3. Stephanie Alexander is a noted Australian food writer and restaurateur, and her A Shared Table is the latest of a plethora of Australian television series celebrating our gastronomic abundance. References Halligan,Marion. Eat My Words. Sydney: Collins/Angus and Robertson, 1990. Visser, Margaret. The Rituals of Dinner. New York: Grove/Weidenfeld, 1991. Walton, John K. Fish and Chips and the British Working Class: 1870-1940. Leicester: Leicester UP, 1992. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Felicity Newman. "'You Have a Basket for the Bread, Just Put the Bloody Chicken in It'." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.7 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/basket.php>. Chicago style: Felicity Newman, "'You Have a Basket for the Bread, Just Put the Bloody Chicken in It'," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 7 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/basket.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Felicity Newman. (1999) "You have a basket for the bread, just put the bloody chicken in it". M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(7). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/basket.php> ([your date of access]).

The Jewish Orphanage in Leiden was the last one of 8 such care homes to open its doors in The Netherlands before the Second World War. After spending almost 39 years in an old and utterly inadequate building in Leiden’s city centre, the inauguration in 1929 of a brand-new building, shown on the front cover, was the start of a remarkably productive and prosperous period. The building still stands there, proudly but sadly, to this day: the relatively happy period lasted less than 14 years. On Wednesday evening, 17th March 1943, the Leiden Police, under German instructions, closed down the Orphanage and delivered 50 children and 9 staff to the Leiden railway station, from where they were brought to Transit Camp Westerbork in the Northeast of the country. Two boys were released from Westerbork thanks to tireless efforts of a neighbour in Leiden; one young woman survived Auschwitz, and one young girl escaped to Palestine via Bergen-Belsen. The 55 others were deported to Sobibor, not one of them survived. Some 168 children lived in the new building at one time or another between August 1929 and March 1943. This book reconstructs life in the orphanage based on the many stories and photographs which they left us. It is dedicated to the memory of those who perished in the holocaust, but also to those who survived. Without them this book could not have been written.

At the heart of Zionists’ nation-building project was the care and education of Jewish children in East-Central Europe. Young people were particularly affected by the war, often having lost family and home. Zionists saw them as the future of the nation, and the struggle for their well-being and education came to be a key element of their efforts during the war. This chapter shows how Zionists built orphanages and kindergartens, schools, and summer camps, and how these institutions functioned on a day-to day basis. These efforts in particular demonstrate that the war was also a time of great opportunity and experimentation for education activists. They tried to apply new pedagogical theories within their institutions based on their ideas of Jewish childhood and its role in producing upright, nationally conscious Jews who were the future of the nation. Gender relations are particularly key in this context: young women played an ever-increasing role in the movement through their involvement with childcare and education. The war opened up a range of new possibilities for young people, and particularly for young women to attain hitherto unheard-of roles within the Zionist movement. These changing gender and age relations within the Zionist movement mirrored changed relations within the wider society, due to the pressure of the war, and shaped the movement for decades to come.