- II. Dünya Savaşı tanklarıyla ilgileniyorum sadece. Siz? Robin 20.52, 18 Ağustos 2021 (UTC)
Mutfak Vikiprojesine Davetlisiniz!Düzenle
Merhaba Robin :) Tabiki de bakıp atacağım haftasonu. Sevgilerimi yolluyorum.--Dakmor Tojira 07.33, 27 Ağustos 2021 (UTC)
- Teşekkürler, iyi vikiler! 🥳 Robin 08.49, 27 Ağustos 2021 (UTC)
Merhaba sevgili Robin. istedigin gibi buraya koyuyorum. Kitabi da nasil buldun bilmem, sirf yeni baskisinda vardi. :) daha cok da resimler ile alakali oldugu icin, asil onlara yer verilmis. fakat bence maddenin ustunden birkac kez daha gecmek gerekiyor, bir de o kirmizilari acsak daha da sahane olur gibime geliyor. bakmaya calisacagim vakit buldukca. hakim oldugum bir konu olmadigi icin maalesef oturup hemen ustunden gecip bir seyler ekleyemiyorum. cunku bilgim yok denecek kadar kisitli.
|“||Gazing out the car window at the countryside sliding by, Helen Schon doesn't miss a moment.
"The hills, look at the hillside!," she exclaims. "Magnificent. Beautiful!"
The backseat commentary could be for the benefit of her son, Sam, who is driving, or it could be fuelled by Helen's excitement at the prospect of seeing an old friend, Alan Moore, for the first time in a decade.
"To see him after so many years, it's something wonderful," Helen says. "I just want to see him, to be there."
Helen is making the two-hour journey from her Melbourne home to the central Victorian town Avoca, where Alan has lived for many years. Swaddled in a coat and a scarf, Helen continues to stare out the window. She may be looking at sun-bleached paddocks and giant wind turbines on distant hills scooping the air out of a flawless May sky, but Helen has also been thinking about seeing the world through a barbed-wire fence, surrounded by death. Helen has been thinking about the day she met Alan.
Standing on the other side of that wire fence on April 15, 1945, Alan couldn't make out what he was looking at. As an artist since he was a teenager, he had learnt to observe. What's more, as an Australian official war artist for the previous two years, he had seen so much. He had depicted Australian forces in battle and at rest, from New Guinea to Italy. But at this moment, Alan's eyes seemed to be failing him.
"We couldn't work out what it was," Alan recalled. "We thought it was just bits of rag, or something." Then he realised what he was looking at.
"Thousands and thousands of dead bodies."
Crammed corpses Alan was at the gates of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. He was travelling with a contingent of British soldiers in Germany's north-west. The European theatre of the Second World War was in its final days. The camp was about to be liberated. The gates to unimaginable misery and cruelty were opened. Alan walked through those gates.
Wherever he looked, he saw the dead and the dying. The grounds were strewn with "naked bodies, thousands of them". He went into the huts and saw corpses crammed against the barely living. Children were lying on the dead.
Starvation and deprivation had killed thousands and an outbreak of typhus had taken so many more. More than 35,000 prisoners had died in Belsen. Among the dead was a teenager whose name and diaries would become synonymous with the Holocaust, Anne Frank.
Seeing was not believing for Alan in Belsen. So he did the only thing he could. He began sketching.
"Made many drawings and sketches of the most horrible sight I have ever seen," Alan later wrote in his personal notes.
Fearing typhus could tear out of the gates and spread, the Allied soldiers began preparing mass graves. Many of the German guards had fled by the time the camp was liberated but some had remained or had been caught and were put to work. The British ordered the former SS guards to load the corpses on to carts and take them to the burial pits.
"I did drawings of the pits as they unloaded these carts," Alan explained to me when I was writing Battle Lines: Australian Artists at War. "One of the [British] troops came up to me and said, 'Oh, Alan, you're mad drawing that. People won't believe you. They'll think you put in 40 or 50 bodies where there's only been one or two.'"
"I thought, 'My hell, he's got some truth there'."
Being watched Alan had a camera, so to prove that he was not sketching something imagined, he photographed whatever he drew.
The photos are shocking. They show corpses draped over the shoulders of former SS guards and being loaded on to carts and trucks, with British soldiers looking on. There are shots of the tangle of emaciated bodies in the pits, as well as photos of the barely living. Yet for all the power of the photographs, Alan's sketches and paintings are even more harrowing and haunting. In one pen and ink drawing, three former guards carry and drag corpses. They look as though they are forever attached to their victims, to what they had done. And in what he has created, Alan has ensured this image remains attached to the memory of all who see it.
When she saw Alan for the first time on the day after the camp was liberated, Helen Stuhl, as she was known then, was not impressed. The 19-year-old may have been starving and weak from typhus but she still felt annoyed watching this man take photos of the wretchedness all around them.
"It bothered me a little bit," Helen says. She recalls Alan was photographing women scrambling for a drum of soup. She couldn't work out why he was taking photos. "What for?" she asked herself. "There's no world out there."
"I kept following him. I wanted to see what his next photo would be, and then the next, and the next . . . I was behind him all the time. I think he was amazed at what he was seeing, because he couldn't get enough photos, wherever he looked."
Alan was aware he was being watched by this girl but he couldn't speak to her. They had no common language. He knew nothing about her.
Journey to Belsen Helen was one of 10 children of a mill owner in the town of Chust in Czechoslovakia. In early 1944, the Germans occupied the town and rounded up the Jewish residents. Helen and members of her extended family were sent to the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp in Poland. No sooner had the group arrived than the family was being wiped out.
"The first night, our parents, my brother's children, his wife, my sister, six [of her sister's] children," Helen tells me in her kitchen. "The first night."
On January 1, 1945, in the face of the advancing Russian army, Helen was among thousands packed into a train and transported to Bergen-Belsen.
Death had accompanied them to Belsen. Helen recalls in her hut there were originally more than 920 women and girls. When the camp was liberated four months later only 60 of those inmates were still living. Her days had been filled with "killing the lice and carrying the dead people out". She had contracted typhus but had somehow recovered. Yet life remained precarious. There was barely any food.
Then, on the afternoon of April 14, Helen noticed the guards were wearing white armbands. By the following morning, most of the guards were gone. Soon after, the British were at the gates.
"We didn't cheer them. We didn't go, 'Oh, the English!', because we didn't know what was waiting for us."
Within a couple of weeks, Helen left the camp. By then, the man taking photos and sketching had already moved on, depicting the release of Australian prisoners of war from camps in Germany. Helen was turning 20 and had a life ahead of her. But life as she knew it had been lost. She thought of the lyrics of a Yiddish song: "Now which way shall I go?"
A chance meeting In the mid-1970s, Alan was at his local RSL in Melbourne when he was approached by Harold Black, a fellow veteran.
Harold rented an office from a couple called David and Helen Schon. Helen had told Harold how she had been a prisoner in Bergen-Belsen. Harold mentioned he knew a bloke who had been there when the camp was liberated. He'd even given Harold copies of the photos he had taken in Belsen.
"She couldn't meet him quickly enough," Harold says.
But when Harold mentioned the meeting to Alan, he was not keen. Alan had put the war behind him, even if Belsen still gave him nightmares. But Harold convinced him to meet this woman called Helen. He was taken to the Schons' clothing factory in the suburb of Prahran. He saw a woman walking towards him, her face blooming with a smile. He didn't recognise this woman. As she neared, she exclaimed, "You're the artist!" Then it hit him. This was the girl who had followed him, watching him, in Belsen.
They embraced and talked.
Helen Stuhl had migrated to Australia in 1949, married David Schon, who had followed her from Czechoslovakia, and started a family, a business, and a new life.
"Coming here," Helen says, "was like getting a cure from cancer".
Painting history Once he had walked in through those gates, Alan could never leave Belsen. Or at least, Belsen never left him. After the war, he did a series of paintings and drawings based on his Belsen sketches for a commercial exhibition in Melbourne. They didn't sell. He hoped the Australian War Memorial would buy them, considering the importance of the subject, but it declined. One of the Memorial's art committee members opined the works "gave little idea of horror and lacked drama". Alan was disappointed and felt his art was shunned. The works sat in a garage for 20 years, unseen, until he donated them to the Memorial.
In recent years, the Memorial has ensured Alan's Belsen work has been seen and that the artist has felt valued. His images are in an exhibition called "A Centenary of Australian War Art" showing in the United States. In 2013, the Memorial launched a year-long exhibition of his war art, and in February 2014, the Memorial's director, Brendan Nelson, invited Alan to Canberra to see again what he created.
"When I finish in this job, when I look back on my time here, I will regard as one of my most significant moments the day Alan Moore came to the Memorial," Dr Nelson says.
The director guided Alan's wheelchair past the works but it was the then-99-year-old artist who guided Nelson through each of the images, explaining the stories behind them.
"As I was walking along these works, most of which he hadn't seen since they had come to the Memorial, you could see the years coming back," Nelson recalls.
"I felt an immense privilege to be in the presence of this man."
Never forget As soon as Helen sees him, the words – and the tears – flow.
They hug tightly for a few moments. Alan gently encourages her to sit down, and Helen introduces Sam – "my son!"
Alan tells Helen she's looking marvellous. She returns the compliment.
"You didn't get older." "No! Just on the calendar."
Alan has dressed for visitors, wearing a colourful cravat, and he dresses in honour of the past. He puts on the beret that he wore as a war artist.
Helen has brought gifts, including a scarf. "You need here something warm!". Jam. "It's kosher!" And home-baked honey cake.
Alan keeps his war art close. From a compartment built into his walker, he pulls out reproductions of his work, including a number of the Belsen images. Together, Helen and Alan look at the scenes of the blind man, the bodies, the squalor and the horror.
"You remember I was following you. Seventy years ago. In my rags," Helen says.
"I remember very well," Alan replies. "It was a long time ago, but you never forget. Never forget."
"No," Helen says in a barely audible voice. "Can't forget. No."
Important artworks 'Life is short, the art long,' is the saying attributed to the ancient Greek physician Hippocrates. Alan is 100 years old. Yet long after he is gone, long after we are all gone, his Belsen works will remain, reverberate and remind the world what happened.
"The Holocaust is very hard to comprehend. Only those who have been through it can comprehend," Phillip Maisel says.
A Holocaust survivor and Head of the Testimonies Department at the Jewish Holocaust Centre in Melbourne, Maisel says Alan's Belsen images help bring people "closer to understanding".
"They convey something that words can't express."
When asked about the importance of Alan's Belsen works, Brendan Nelson thinks for a few seconds.
"I don't think there's any way I can describe its importance," he replies.
"Six million Jews were exterminated by the Nazis in the Holocaust. All I can say to you, just describing it makes me emotional."
Alan's art, he says, is a "direct connection between Australia, Australians and what happened".
Nelson suspects few Australians have heard of Alan, but believes he should be well known for what he created for the nation, history, and a better understanding of humanity.
Liberation Helen is embracing Alan at the front door of the nursing home, as she says goodbye.
"See you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you again. Thank you for liberate."
She turns to a nurse looking on.
"He liberated us."
"Yeah, look after yourselves," Alan says, smiling.
"Thank you," Helen repeats, giving him one more hug. "Not many left."
To Helen, Alan is more than a dear friend. He personifies the day 70 years ago that marked the "end of dying, of misery".
"I cannot tell you the feeling what we had, so it's joy every time I speak to him. I can only remember him as an angel from heaven, that's it. Nothing else."
Tank filan yazilacaksa, yazarim. o daha rahat. iyi vikilemeler, iyi pazarlar :)--Dakmor Tojira 04.11, 29 Ağustos 2021 (UTC)
Sivil Parişler Proje DavetiyesiDüzenle
Bir yıldız da sizin için!Düzenle
𝗩𝗶𝗸𝗶𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗿 ℣ 20.06, 11 Eylül 2021 (UTC)
Sosyoloji Vikiprojesine davetDüzenle
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