Archive for the ‘East End writers’ Category

John Bierman

Thursday, November 4th, 2010



John Bierman, who died earlier this month after a long period of ill-health, was an East End boy who was displaced by the Blitz and never stopped moving.

His career was to take in every aspect of print and broadcast journalism – from provincial newspapers, to Fleet Street sub-editor in the 1950s, to foreign correspondent, to TV news reporter. He was to finish his career as a historical writer, producing hugely readable and respected books on characters as diverse as Henry Stanley, Napoleon III and Holocaust hero Raoul Wallenberg. But it was for 13 minutes of utterly compelling television in 1972 that he will go down in journalistic history.

John Bierman was born on 26 January 1929, into an East End Jewish family. His father, Richard, was an antiques dealer, while mother Beatrice ran a dress shop. Bierman remarked later that neither of them showed much interest in their son – Richard soon disappeared, and at the age of 11, John was evacuated to stay with grandparents in the country during the Blitz. ‘A wonderful adventure,’ he remembered later. It was the start of a peripatetic existence, as he attended 16 schools, acquiring and maintaining throughout a love of the language that was to become his craft.

In the late forties he did his National Service in the Royal Marines and, returning to Civvy Street, learned his trade as a journalist on regional papers. He then took a passage on a cattle boat to Canada, spending two years working on newspapers before returning to London, a new wife and a young family in the mid-fifties. The now-hardened newsman took a job as a sub-editor in Fleet Street, working on the Daily Express and quickly progressing to the back bench – laying out pages and writing headlines.

But his perenially itchy feet led Bierman to accept a job editing The Nation, a Kenyan newspaper established by the Aga Khan. From there he moved to Trinidad to edit papers for the Thomson Corporation. But in the mid-sixties he returned to London once more, making the shift from print to broadcast media. He was soon back on the road, working as a foreign correspondent and reporting from warzones around the planet. He was to cover the conflict in Biafra during the final years of the sixties, the Indo-Pakistan War of 1971. and the Arab-Israeli (Yom Kippur) War of 1973. It was in Rawalpindi, Pakistan, that he met his second wife, Hilary Brown, a Canadian reporter.


But it was a relatively routine assignment to cover a Civil Rights march in Derry (Londonderry) in January 1972 that was to cement John’s place in history. The BBC had sent two camera crews: one covering the march from the point of view of the security forces, with Bierman’s showing it from the demonstrator’s perspective. Caught in the middle of what was to become known as Bloody Sunday, Bierman, cameraman Cyril Cave and his sound recordist soon realised that it wasn’t just rubber bullets and CS Gas canisters … live rounds were being fired.

The crew rushed back to Belfast with film of casualties and interviews with local priest Father Daly and the commander of the British Army in the province. General Ford “seemed to have very little idea about what had actually occurred, which – to say the least – seemed to me surprising,” remembered John later. “Up to now I had been too busy chasing the action to give much thought to the implications of what we had witnessed – live rounds fired and at least three dead bodies. What had happened to turn an initially peaceful civil rights march into this?

“Up to that point nobody in London seemed to realise that there had been a massacre and, as I learned later, high-level consultations went on about how much length and prominence should be given to my report. Without waiting for the official version, which eventually said that 13 civilians had been killed (another died later from his wounds), the BBC powers-that-be sent me word that the bulletin that night would be open-ended and I should let my report run for as long as it needed. This seemed to me at the time – and still does today – stirring affirmation of the confidence the BBC put in its reporters. This was, after all, an extremely sensitive story and one misjudgement might have landed us all in very hot water.”

A final career followed as a writer, penning historical works, often with Colin Smith, and often focusing on the stories and characters behind some of the major military conflicts. In 1981 he did some fine detective work on one of the forgotten heroes of the Holocaust. Righteous Gentile: The Story of Raoul Wallenberg, told the tale of a Swedish diplomat who rescued Hungarian Jews using a mixture of subterfuge, false passports and delicate negoations with the Nazi occupiers. The tragic irony was that the liberating Russians, who entered Budapest in January 1945, promptly arrested Wallenberg as a US spy. He disappeared into the Russian Gulags, never to be seen again.

The history was arguably Bierman’s best work. Military historian Sir John Keegan wrote of Alamein: War Without Hate (written with fellow journalist Colin Smith) “few historians write as fluently as they do; few journalists achieve their standards of accuracy and inclusiveness.” But perhaps the most personal work was yet to come, harking back to the East End childhood where his wanderings began. At the time of his death, John was working on a memoir of the London of his youth – working title Guttersnipes.
Books by John Bierman
Secret Life of Laszlo Almasy: The Real English Patient; Alamein: War Without Hate by John Bierman and Colin Smith; Fire in the Night: Wingate of Burma, Ethiopia and Zion by John Bierman and Colin Smith; Dark Safari: The Life Behind the Legend of Henry Morton Stanley by John Bierman; Napoleon III and His Carnival Empire by John Bierman; Heart’s Grown Brutal (writing as David Brewster).


East London’s Black writers

Thursday, November 4th, 2010



London’s Black history is inextricably bound up with slavery. There are stories of displacement and cruelty, of people bought and sold as chattels, denied their past and any kind of future.

A further injustice is that, though there had been Black Africans in London since the Middle Ages (and in 1772 judge Lord Mansfield estimated there were 14,000 slaves in England in addition to free Black men and women), these powerful stories were effectively written out of English history.

Yet despite enormous barriers, a number of Black writers were active, writing down their horrific experiences – and their ambitions for a better future for their people – in the 1700s. A new publication, Power Writers*, uncovers and celebrates five African writers who came to London in the 18th century. Their work – and the journeys they took to deliver it – make extraordinary reading.

Ukawsaw Gronniosaw was born a prince in the city of Bournu, near Lake Chad, probably in 1710. An unhappy childhood in a family who decided Gronniosaw was insane, ended when he left to travel with a Gold Coast merchant. Suspected of being a spy, the boy escaped being beheaded by the furious king – instead he found himself sold into slavery.

His journeys took him to Holland, where he learned to read, embraced Christianity and educated himself with evangelical tracts such as John Bunyan’s The Holy War. Fetching up in London he took the name James Albert and settled in Petticoat Lane. His travels around England saw him meeting Benjamin Fawcett, a dissenting minister, and through him the Countess of Huntingdon. It was his new friends who were to publish A narrative of the most remarkable particulars in the life of James Albert Ukawsaw Gronniaw, an African prince, as related by himself in 1772. It was the first of the Slave Narratives, and opened the floodgates; over the next decades there would be hundreds more.


John Marrant’s experience was very different. An African, born free in New York in 1755, he was a gifted musician, master of the violin and French horn. But his life was changed forever when he attended a Methodist service, given by the celebrated preacher George Whitefield. A sceptic, who had gone along to disrupt the service, John was instead converted on the spot. He set to travelling around the US, preaching and converting Native Americans to Christianity.

Though born free, John was to lose his liberty in dramatic fashion. Press-ganged into the Royal Navy during the American War of Independence, he served his time and was eventually discharged in London. The Countess of Huntingdon once more lent a hand, arranging for the publication of A narrative of the Lord’s wonderful dealings with John Marrant…’. Marrant then settled in his new city, at 69 Mile End Road.

Increasingly, the narratives were allied to the abolitionist cause. Olaudah Equiano had been a child in what is now Nigeria, then a slave in America and the West Indies before becoming a free man in London. His narrative, first published in 1789, told an extraordinary story of achievement against enormous odds. After working on a Barbados plantation, he spent his teenage years in the Royal Navy, becoming a skilled seaman. He survived a shipwreck; taught himself to read, write and do accounts; saved £40 to purchase his freedom; settled in London working as a hairdresser; and became involved in the Committee for the Relief of the Black Poor in London, based in Whitechapel.

But it was the narrative that was fuel to the abolitionists. It included the damning query ‘O, ye nominal Christians. Might not an African ask you, learned you this from God … Why are parents to lose their children’ a cruelty that ‘adds fresh horrors even to the wretchedness of slavery’.

Power Writers also looks at the work of Phillis Wheatley. Kidnapped from Senegal at seven, she was sold into a Boston family. At a time when many white Americans doubted the ability of Black people to learn to read and write, Wheatley became one of the most celebrated poets of her day.

And there is Ottobah Cugoano. Born in what is now Ghana, taken to Grenada and then England as a slave, he won his liberty and published one of the first overtly abolitionist tracts by an African in English.

Extraordinary and inspiring stories, and there are many hundreds more. They could change the way you view the history of our city.
*Power Writers is published by Tower Hamlets African Caribbean Mental Health Organisation, £4 from local libraries and Bow Idea Store, ISBN 1871593506


Willy Goldman

Wednesday, November 3rd, 2010


Is it overstating the case to call Willy Goldman the lost genius of East End writing? This Jewish son of Stepney, a lover of the written word, traumatised by being forced from school to sweatshop at 14, went on to write one of the great memoirs of East End Life, and was lauded by no less than TS Eliot and CP Snow.

Yet having achieved unlikely success and a measure of fame, by his early forties he had all but stopped writing.

The work for which Willy is now best known is ‘East End My Cradle’, a memoir of his earliest days as part of an ever-growing and increasingly impoverished East End Jewish family. If he fondly remembers his childhood games and playmates, it’s an unstintingly unsentimental view of life in the years after the First World War.
Everybody is in the garment trade, with the acme of ambition to claw your way up, buy a couple of machines, and kit out your back room as a workshop. Then, the next generation of youngsters can be employed in the back-breaking and tedious job of stitching together clothes for a few pennies a time.
The snobbery and hierarchy is stultifying. The man who runs the corner shop, is considered a cut above, as he has escaped the trade that everyone else is slave to. He in turn looks down at his neighbours in the rag trade. And, like some minor aristo, his son inherits the attitude of superiority – until it’s beaten out of him at the local youth club.
There are few ways out of the Ghetto. Boxing was one for young Jewish lads and Willy pulls on the gloves. His skills though are learned merely to defend himself – also one suspects, to follow his beloved older brother, who defeats all-comers and anyone who dares to bully Willy. Another method of improvement is to unstintingly dedicate yourself to your machine-work, and after many years of mindbending monotony put by enough cash to start your own sweatshop.
Or you can study, move up and out – hence the obsession with education of many Jewish parents of the day. Knowledge could mean money and freedom. Willy had graduated from Berner Street Elementary School in Stepney to win a scholarship at St George’s in the East Central School in Cable Street. He had the brains to get out. Imagine the 14-year-old Willy’s horror then when after breaking up from school for summer on the Friday, he is marched along to the sweatshop to start work on the Monday.


“It took me a long time to forgive them that,” he says of his parents. The bright and able student had been looking forward to another couple of years of schooling but it was cruelly snatched away. His parents, Romanian Jews with barely a word of English, had forced their children through ‘Kheder’, the religious school that attempted to drum the Talmud into the children whether they wanted to learn or not, but mainstream education wasn’t taken seriously. Books were mistrusted fiercely. In the end, Willy decided, there wasn’t much to choose between the two schools anyhow. Both privileged the cane over the text book.

But starting work was hard, and the blow seemed harder as his father was scarcely succeeding in business. A market trader, his fortunes had peaked during the First World War. By the mid-twenties, his habit of letting customers run up never-ending slates saw the family often going hungry. The family tried to persuade Goldman senior, who spoke only a few words of English, that he had his sales pitch wrong too. Wheeling his seafood barrow along the cobbled streets of Stepney, he would cry ‘Ripe Fish!’ To their protests, he would reply that they were his fish and he would call them what he liked.

The snobbery of the ghetto kicked in. As the family went down, neighbours began to look down on them, and Willy’s inability to hold down regular work caused endless rows. The rift with his parents saw Willy move between a succession of grim lodging houses. The real sense though is the grinding monotony of the life. Willy was born in 1910, so had the bad timing to be looking for work just as the Great Depression kicked in.

Could life get any worse? ‘East End My Cradle’ ends with a glimpse of the upturn in Goldman’s fortunes. He starts to spend time in the Whitechapel Library, educating himself about the world and starting to write. Having secretly worked on the manuscript of his ‘great East End novel’, he receives a rejection slip – a lucky escape for both Goldman and the readers he laughs. Instead, excerpts are published in New England magazine, and commissions follow from Left Review and New Writing.

The 1940s were enormously prolific. As well as his short stories, full length works were published – The Light in the Dust (1944), A Tent of Blue (1946), Some Blind Hand (1946), A Start in Life (1947) and The Forgotten Word (1948), as well as wartime play, That Thy Days May Be Long (1945). He was rejected for military service having contracted TB, and spent the duration clearing East End bomb sites.

He came second in an Observer short story competition in 1951, with Muriel Spark the winner. His best work was already behind him. By now he was married for the third time and his energies were directed to bringing up his young family, and worked at labouring jobs. Willy Goldman died in 2009, aged 99.

Pictures: book cover; Jewish soup kitchen; Yiddish theatre. – ‘The Jewish East End of Willy Goldman’s youth, where parents spoke Yiddish rather than English, is long gone. So too, thankfully, is the demand to leave school at 14 to work in a sweatshop’.