Before and After
I saw the meme below in 2017. It inspired the first chapter I wrote for Before and After.
But I was afraid. Everything in current events was alarming to my values and family history.
In the intervening years I observed many different responses to how society was changing, and realized that the ancient curse, May you live in interesting times, was my generation’s new legacy.
This novel is my answer to that challenge. It is a braided narrative set in a near-future world in recovery. There re two threads. The first introduces two primary characters, Elena and Isabella. They share stories of Before and what happened to them and their people with a creative cohort they collect. Their goal is to inspire their new, primarily younger, friends to create a new mythology.
There are three settings: an idealized (but increasingly dystopian) Before; The Upheaval and how it changed society; and a post-Upheaval world of After. These are stories of courage and hope, as well as stories of loss and sorrow. The characters challenge, delight, and inspire. They are people we cheer for, mourn, respect and emulate. We will remember them because of they make us feel.
The Table of Contents shows the braided narrative in two forms. The first story, “Another Life,” sets the stage for the novel. The italicized interstitials move the narrative and plot forward. The chapter titles are the stories the roughly dozen characters share and create.
I’ve been both published and self-published. I’m ready for an agent who feels this project in her heart and gut and also thinks it’s marketable. When I write I see everything as a movie. I hope to sign with someone who sees strong potential to sell media rights as well as a published novel. I hope this project resonates with you. Please connect with me at yourjfg@gmail.com to discuss the possibilities.
Table of Contents
(Note: Completed content is linked. Other chapters are work in progress. Because stories are being submitted to magazines for publication, they are not published here. But you can get a sense of tone. Everything is available upon request.)
Chapter 1
In the beginning…
A – Another Life
Chapter 2
Elena describes the moon ritual and calendar.
B – The Baker
Chapter 3
Isabella describes her Upheaval.
C – The Caretaker
Chapter 4
Who they were Before.
D – Dog Daze
Chapter 5
How Magda’s wild love affair with poetry began.
E – Every Thursday Afternoon
Chapter 6
The ones we saved. The ones we lost.
F – The Foxes
Chapter 7
Romy’s friend.
G – Girl With A Gun
Chapter 8
How far back The Upheaval began.
H – Her Wooden Spoon
Chapter 9
Isabella remembers.
I – Inventory/Interrogation
Chapter 10
Lineages of resistance.
J – The Jacket
Chapter 11
Even they can say No.
K – The Klansman
Chapter 12
The choices large and small.
L – The Lodger
Chapter 13
Carol tells of her ancestors.
M – Mythologies
Chapter 14
How it began for Johanna.
N – Night, Night
Chapter 15
Elena’s legacy.
O – Old Family Recipe
Chapter 16
Maria’s story.
P – Promised Land
Chapter 17
Maria’s journey.
Q – Quietly, Quietly My Dear Ones
Chapter 18
Bella’s fugue for the departed.
R – Remembrances
Chapter 19
Johanna picks up her pen.
S – Schrodinger’s Jews
Chapter 20
Noelle paints the path to After.
T – The Travellers
Chapter 21
Bella opens doors.
U – Until the End
Chapter 22
Noelle shows the way.
V – Visions
Chapter 23
Johanna sets the stage.
W – Why
Chapter 24
Magda’s rap.
X – XXX
Chapter 25
Yyve finally speaks….
Y – Yes, Why?
Chapter 26
How it ends…..
Z – Zed
Chapter 27
Now it’s up to us….
Epilogue – The Missing Letter
Stories
Another Life
Elena was a woman of the city. She knew all the small parks, and had a favorite bench in each. Some were public, along paths of the myriad tourists who overran the city three seasons a year. Others were hidden, and allowed reflection, like the small, crumbling fountain in the courtyard of her local synagogue.
Her daily walk connected her to her chosen home. She took regular communion feeding pigeons and watching children play, as she shared greetings with busy shopkeepers rolling up their grates, and nodded to the other strolling regulars, anonymous but familiar. Some days were aimless and silent. Others she sampled delicacies from the pods of food vendors ringing the neighborhood parks. Or in the bustling markets where hawkers shouted of the freshest produce and catch of the day. Everywhere she met smiles of greeting, the pulse of the city reflected in her brisk rhythmic steps.
Tuesday through Saturday she opened her gallery at eleven. This allowed her to rise at a comfortable hour, perform her ablutions, and be seated at the corner café for morning espresso and a roll, hot and yeasty, served with the proprietress’ special quince jam. As thanks, each year at the holidays she gifted figs from her distant homeland. They understood living far from their roots. They understood what time had stolen, what could never be returned, and what solace only memories might offer.
It was called Gallery Louisa, for reasons answered only with a quiet smile. The art was eclectic, a reflection of her interests in both science and the natural world. The pieces were all small, constellations of color and light on the white plaster walls that led from room to room, each with its own ambiance and focus. There were modernists and classics, simple line drawings and deft oils. The art varied in style, subject, and medium. But there was an emotional resonance. The truth of who she was, reflected in three hundred small frames, each offering a window into worlds known and imagined. Worlds that reflected what had been so brutally destroyed; worlds now re-imagined, offering if not safety, at least hope. In a world resurrecting so tenuously from The Upheaval, it was a small sanctuary of civility and beauty. An invitation for respite and escape.
Visitors and passersby saw her relaxed and comfortable in an ancient leather armchair. A book in hand as she re-read a favorite, in the side of the gallery that felt more like a home than a store. An huge, scarred, mahogany sideboard held a weathered samovar, plus teas and tisanes for guests who lingered, asking about a particular piece, or perhaps the book she was reading, hoping to be remembered when she chose her dinner guests.
It was always best to make an appointment, because some travelling soprano might beguile her away. Louisa’s sign would flip quickly to Tomorrow, please…. if someone offered her a ticket, or came with news of a hidden masterpiece discovered in a neighbor’s attic.
She was happy in this simple life. It suited her. After the years of dissembling and then hiding, it had become a refuge. A place where beauty and imagination might smooth some of the painful edges, the torn and burned places where she had lost so much and so many. It could not erase The Upheaval, or even create a clear path to a happier future. But it was a safe haven for her and those she held close. Hard earned with blood and sacrifice. Vulnerable because it was public. Brave to honor the lost. A beginning.
Life in the After was an exhale, but still precarious. The most draconian rules were gone; but the current ambiguity had costs of its own. People were uncertain. They lived with hobbled gaits and cautious glances. Trust was a luxury too precious to squander. Even those known from Before could be held at arm’s length.
Elena’s best friend was a cellist with the local orchestra, a former professor of literature named Isabella. In the Before she had taught. During The Upheaval she played many roles, both open and secret. Like many in her tattered community she played several instruments The cello and oboe, she once said, come closest to expressing my sadness, and though I cannot express the beauty I sense, at least it’s a love affair that keeps showering me with hope.
Isabella and Elena had met in the early After, browsing in a used bookstore, colliding in the stacks, each so engrossed that time and walls had melted away. It was exactly the kind of resonance and easy familiarity of spirit they had trusted so easily Before, but which had become so precarious.
The friendship quickly deepened as they walked the city. Walked and walked. Walked and talked. Walked and admired the emerging bounty around them. Through galleries and museums. To concerts, operas, plays, and lectures. To pop-up poetry gatherings and impromptu gatherings.
Their friendship defied boundaries and labels. Charm and mystery lay at the heart of their story. Their conversations sparkled with wit, wisdom, and friendship, accompanied by excellent food, and the best wines, coffees, and delights both sweet and savory. They never said goodbye, only planned their next encounter. They reveled as freedoms returned, and as what had been mourned began to glimmer.
As their trust grew, they shared not only what their lives had been Before, and their struggles during The Upheaval, but their hopes for what might come. Of not merely reclaiming and revitalizing, but of creating new mythologies, new memories, and ultimately new wards against a return of the darkness. They spoke in equal measure of reason and joy, and of how to create reach beyond their small and shattered communities.
Their fantasies of assaulting recent cultural norms was deeply serious. Their plans became both focused and elaborate. But they had the occasional giggle fit when the scope of what they were contemplating seemed overwhelming. They had sufficient means for a safe life. But their years were waning. The true legacy each most longed for was more than longevity, or even the stubborn fortitude of having survived. They longed for a world that once again valued goodness, creativity, and mutual respect.
How, they asked one another, can we accomplish that?
So they hatched a plan. To gather creatives. Younger people. Discoveries from their walks and explorations. People who might never meet in their ordinary lives, but whom they hoped to connect and spark.
They resolved to share a year’s worth of stories and to invite more from their guests. They would start with words and in the years that followed, support their cohort of protoges into making music, art, movies, comics, any form of sharing that might inspire new legends and prevent the return of darkness and hatred.
Elena’s home was modest. Built two hundred years before, on a quiet tree-lined street. The simple exterior belied the wonders she had assembled within, treasures of her travels, alone and with Isabella. Prizes from decades patiently poking in the bins of art sales and flea markets. Piles of well-worn books, long-cherished recordings of her favorite music, and photos covered most surfaces. The walls were filled, frame abutting frame, a mirror to her gallery, the curation of a long evolving perspective. Dark-rimmed eyeglasses in every room. Open books, catalogues, and journals invited closer scrutiny. But everything was tidy, even the odd, short, closet near the door that held her inevitable tan jackets, hats, and walking shoes.
Rarely did she encounter her past. When it happened, a watcher might see an inner curtain descend. A silent, but strong ward. The source might be a headline, name, or swastika in the news. A sudden blink, and she was gone. Briefly but firmly. A shell. Until the return of a careful smile that did not reach her eyes. Always a residual caution from those dark times. The shadow when she spoke of her long-dead mother, aunt, or sister. Those who cared did not ask again.
Neither she nor Isabelle spoke of their earlier years. They had been troubled. Not merely the jackbooted politics that killed so many, but knowing how different she was from her peers. Partly as an immigrant; partly her intellect. Most vital, her ability to see beneath the surface of what others accepted too easily; and her willingness to ask questions, albeit quietly, that others might avoid. What she had done during the Upheaval she discussed with no one except Isabella.
They hatched their plans with a mixture of excitement and caution. They had seen too many fall and disappear. And even in a world where the worst had become less likely, there were still too many unseen dangers lurking, and too few ways to discern what crossed the invisible lines that had doomed the past.
So they set off determined to discover a creative cohort who might embrace their vision. Diversity, they said, would be the key. Finding souls whose intuition was resonant even if their styles and artistic forms were wildly different. Together they would create a new kind of magic.
The first was Magda, a street performer of wild, often ribald, poetry. She had delighted them often from her perch outside a restaurant, challenging passersby with her wit. Next was Carol, a librarian. Quiet but dedicated. After an especially moving impromptu jazz concert, they approached Bella, a saxophonist. And Noelle, the painter, whose colorful imagination evoked both smiles and heartache. Then two more, sisters Johanna and Romy, a playwright and her one-woman-show star.
Seven, they thought. And Maria, said Elena. We cannot do this without her. You just want her baking,laughed Isabella. No, replied Elena, I want her quiet wisdom. We three will be the elders. The young ones will be the engine. We will make something new.
Isabella reflected quietly. I have one more. Yyve. She will explain herself slowly. But it will be worth the wait. Elena’s eyebrow’s poised mid-height in question, but Isabella merely said, She is my past and my future. You will see.
To each invitee they gifted a carefully penned invitation: To appear “for an elegant supper, to meet new friends, and for a thrilling opportunity to make new and exciting art” at Elena’s, on a given evening. It was written in cursive, with fountain pen, on stiff cardstock, and delivered as royally as a gift. For you, they said in unison. We hope can attend.
They waited and prepared. The evening of the gathering they did ritual together as they lit candles and laid a fire in the hearth. The starched white linens had not seen service since long Before. The silver they polished gleamed in the firelight. Wine bottles stood waiting as twilight fell, and the two exhaled in unison at the first chime of the doorbell.
One by one they arrived. Some confident, some hesitant. With offerings and empty-handed. Excited, curious, perhaps a little confused. But each one, looking around at the simple elegance, and feeling the strong sense of safety in the room, grasped both hands with Elena and Isabella and said a simple, Thank you.
The Baker
She made us laugh.
She made us laugh when it mattered most. Whether it was an impromptu story or an awkward jig, it broke the tension of our days. She made fun of us; she made fun of Them; she made fun of herself. It was just a moment, but a moment in which we felt human again. The laughter was like bread. The most basic hunger. One fed so rarely since The Upheaval.
….
The Caretaker
Long ago she had been a teacher, in the days when schools still taught reading and stories from diverse cultures. She loved all the myths: hero quests, clever queens, legendary kingdoms, and chimera of all description. She enjoyed infecting young minds with questions, and, perhaps even more, leaving them hungry for answers. She was a poet of minor renown, whose musings on the natural world offered temporary respite from the harsh news of the day.
….
Every Thursday Afternoon
She had been their English teacher Before. Before, when schools still valued critical thinking and literature. Before, when girls were freely educated. Before, when they might aspire to jobs outside the home. Before, when women were equal citizens. A Before that was too quickly becoming memory..
….
Girl with a Gun
When the papers said she’d killed three, I knew it branded her a terrorist. But the news had been so unreliable for so long that any such nuggets were precious. Any that showed a resistance not fully cowed, that is. All I truly believed was that she was gone to us. Dead or disappeared meant the same. We would not see her again.
…
The Jacket
The neighborhood children called her The Crazy Lady. They alternated between avoiding her and slinking along behind as she crisscrossed residential streets, market areas, and even (defying every fervent parental instruction) into the industrial zones. There was never a discernible rhythm to her movements. No seeming logic about whom she approached, or to whom she offered her mysterious and occasionally terrifying rhymes.
…
The Lodger
He didn’t tell me his nephew worked for the resistance. Just said he was a kid from farm country, who’d gotten into the U on a sports scholarship. But he was quiet and didn’t want to live in the dorms. Needed a safe place to chill between workouts and classes. In addition, he said with a twinkle, the young man was a martial arts champion, with experience as a bodyguard to a minor rock musician. He’d be perfect in the cottage, once my ex’s detritus was cleared out. Even offered to help, and did. It easily solved some problems, so I didn’t ask the questions I should have. Ok, I didn’t ask anything, other than, Does he like to weed? Yes, I was too painfully naïve.
…
Mythologies
It began as it ended, with whispers and rumors. The ephemera of truth that framed their arrival and departure. A cloud of mystery that magnified their impact on the jeune filles of the city. And also on their mothers, hungry for the adventure and magic that the shop and its mysterious new owners proffered. It was a refuge for some and the promise of a new life for others.
…
Night, Night
She would never have said, Yes, I’m afraid of the dark. In fact, she was not afraid. She simply ignored it. Behind closed lids and with the clutch of her familiar stuffed bear, she was somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
….
Old Family Recipe
Take a daughter and her mother. Put them in the kitchen. Allow to thaw to room temperature. (Note: They were frozen long ago, so there are white and crusty places. A few knocks and rinses; who will know? All family recipes have evolved in the diaspora, so please expect flavor changes from your memories of childhood.)
…
Promised Land
No one could remember how long their families had lived there. Generations upon many more. The land had never been completely tamed, but the terrain helped keep them isolated and safer than those in the lowlands. There was a trust between them and the land. Between them and one another. They had enough. There was laughter and friendship. They
were happy.
…
Schrödinger’s Jews
They arrived later than they’d planned and saw a large noisy crowd, all aimed for the narrow doorway. Everyone was pushing and shoving, so they jostled their way in and held a tight trio in the throbbing space.
I’d wanted a drink, said Einstein with bemused patience. But I can’t even see the bar.
…
The Missing Letter
We’re all hoping for better. Preferably soon. And it would be lovely if it felt and tasted good, was comfy and friendly, with room for our beloveds.
…
