BOOKS ON THE TABLE

Press, Volume LXXVI, Issue 23053, 22 June 1940, Page 14

BOOKS ON THE TABLE

After the morning sessions Mr Oppenheim toured the store ceaselessly What was that customer interested in? Show her the new black Vionnet, the draped gold Belong, the purple Patou —has she seen the Richelieu seed-pearl hags I brought from Europe?—telephone for a mannequin to come up from the main floor with the Reboux turban we advertised to-day—call the perfume buyer and have her send a girl to spray Jaytho all over the ftore-pick up that dress, you’re trailing it on the ground. A glance behind the desk on each floor to see if any new sales had been recorded in the department record book during the past five minutes —who left that hght on m the stock room? —why is that paper on the floor?—get fresh flowers for the vase on the table —send that mannequin downstairs for shoes to match her dress—why is it up to me, the president of a store? Then, hatless, out into the street to inspect the new window display. There’s a wrinkle in that dress—those green gloves don’t match that bag—why don’t we put in the new jewellery that came in yesterday on the “Aquitania”—what ’ is it still doing up in the receiving room? Then it was time for another visit to the advertising department It was apparent that Jay Thorpe and Mr Oppenheim were one and the same. He was its president, stylist, European buyer, fashion editor, display manager, store superintendent, personnel director, and advertising manager, as well as architect and decorator. I wondered what would happen to the store if he got a toothache. From “It’s a Woman’s Business,’’ by Estelle Hamburger. (Victor Gollancz Ltd. 256 pp. 8s 6d net.) The writer of- this book has reached fame as “Paprika,” a woman who knows some of the greatest New York fashion stores and department stores from inside. has built up their business as an advertising expert, has played her own large part in the development of advertising technique. She started, just put of school, with Macy’s. whose advertising she rose to direct, and from whom she broke, with many a pang, to join the exclusive house of Bonwit Teller. An independent enterprise was interrupted by an irresistible call to Stern Brothers and a hard job of reorganisation and bold selling cam- • paigns; but the Great Depression crashed down on big business, and even the best brains lost price.- “Pap- . rika” sank back to a long-left salary • level as copy-writer. But she was not ; to stay there, and it is as a high executive at Jay Thorpe’s that she tells this dazzling, astonishing story of sales- ■ manship, salesmen, customers, the ori dered whirligig of fashion, sweeping , successes and punishing losses, and the i thrill of enterprise, planned through in ; scope and detail. | * » , * Suddenly Benedicto turns his • head .... I’ve heard a strange ! noise, too. There it is again! It sounds as though somebody was • thumping on an empty barrel. It is ! coming nearer, mingled with a : noise of crashing and * pounding. “Quechadas!” (“Peccary!”) says Benedicto, trembling all over. We have heard mad stories of these quechadas. They roam the jungle in huge herds, and run everything

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down that stands in their way. Even jaguars and pumas respect these rough customers. If they wind a dog, they go mad with fury, and they are said to have rooted up young trees on which hunters had taken refuge. Trampling and grunting, the herd appears to be approaching like a steam-roller. Making straight for us! “Nao tern, Senhor!” (“Don’t be afraid, sir! ) says Benedicto, trembling, and stretching out his hand for more ammunition .... I slip the catch nt my Mauser; Benedicto has his rifle at the ready—all at once we are in the midst of them! I jump behind a bush and shout to Benedicto; “Don’t shoot!” We must let the leader go by with the vanguard. The animals push past us almost invisibly; only now and again is a bit of one to be seen through the undergrowth. Then a huge boar rushes at me out of the thicket; its whiskers show up light-grey against the dark body, its huge tusks are gleaming. I raise my rifle, and at the report all hell is let loose in the bush. My assailant is sitting on its haunches, four paces • away from me, shot in the back. Its grisly jaws close with a crash. Quick, the death stroke! Here comes the next, rushing past; in his fury he appears not to notice me. He collapses undef fire. Here come some more. As Benedicto takes aim, I see a big tusker suddenly turn back and rush at him from the rear. My five shots are spent. I shout: “Olha atraz!” (“Look behind you!”), and in the nick of time he manages to send a Brennecke bullet into the maddened creature’s skull .... i From “Riddle of" Hell’s Jungle,” by Schulz-Kampfhenkel, with extracts from the diaries of his friend, Gerd Kahle. (Hurst and Blackett Ltd. 251 pp. 16s net.) Between 1935 and 1937, with two other young Germans, the author traversed the jungle-basin of the Rio Jary, between French Guiana and the Amazon. This expedition had official German and Brazilian aid. It collected much geographical, zoology cal, and ethnographical material; but this book is no account of that, but merer ly—to say “merely” is no disparagement —the record of a most difficult and eventful journey, full of strange discovery, marked by Hazard, mischance, and bare escape, and carried through with great zeal and typically German thoroughness. There is much in the book to admire, much to be enjoyed. What is neither admirable nor enjoyable is the strident note of German self-assertion and arrogant claim. The many photographs are extremely good. ( * * * The fundamental issue is a moral issue. That is why we fight. Labour in the British Commonwealth has no imperial aims. It will not lend itself to such aims. Neither will it degrade this crusade into a scramble for world markets. Its determination is to keep its spiritual values, i to retain those achievements which have widened the bounds of human freedom, and to assist in creating ; those essential conditions of civil- ; ised life in which alone the spirit of freedom, in all its manifestations, can thrive. It is of the utmost importance, therefore, whatever course the present struggle may take, whatever shortcomings may arise, to keep ever before our eyes the high pur-

pose for which we embarked on the crusade. Though mighty masses of metal may hurtle through the air, this war is a war of nerves. It is, indeed, much more —it is a war of wills, a war between the will of the dictator on the one hand and the will 0 f common people of all lands'on the other, to cherish, uphold, and strengthen the soul of liberty. It is the task of leaders of democratic thought and opinion, during the coming days, to keep burning

ARTHUR GREENWOOD brightly the flame of man’s endeavours to escape from servitude and suppression, and to win through to' that freedom for all which makes for human dignity and moral strength. From “JVhy We Fight; - Labour’s Case,” by the Rt. Hon. Arthur Greenwood, M.P. (Routledge. 222 pp. 6/6. Through Whitcombe and Torabs, Ltd.) Mr Greenwood states Labour’s attitude to war, outlines the causes of Hitler’s rise, the increasing tension between the democracies and the dictatorships, and the failure of peace efforts and. in an admirably condensed survey of British social progress and ideals, describes the “Things We Have to Defend.” Two other sections are headed “How Labour Would Safeguard Liberty” and “After the War— What?” J Since Mr Greenwood wrote, he has, of course, joined Mr Churchill's Government, whose national war policy, in many respects, is here anticipated and advocated.

Ceaselessly, to the very rhythm of his hammer, the African chants. , All week he is a worker who sings. But on Sundays he becomes a king taking possession of his inherited territory. For on Sundays dancing teams are formed to compete for the prizes offered by the mine authorities, and often for the benefit of tourists. . The mine-workers discard their overalls, lay aside their European suits. , . , They dress like their forefathers, in loin-cloths. Often, they blend primitive costume with additional trappings sold them by{ clever pedlars, or presented by_ is not uncommon to see, mJfjV front row of a dancing team, a savagelooking man with a top-hat, or with suspenders showing under the feathers on powerful black calves. Thousands of them, who look down-trodden and drab in their everyday apparel and surroundings, for this one day in the'week assume majestic guise, gain stature, move with noble pride, heads high, eyes full of authority, bodies vibrant with earth-deep passion. And they dance. Swaying arid pounding, the feathers on their heads and arms high in the breeze, the white horsehair switches swinging in rapid motion on their calves, their muscles rippling, backwards, forwards, pounding, pounding, faster, thudding, leaping, stamping, shouting, they move in perfect unison, chanting as with one mighty voice. From “Pagan Tapestry,” by Bertha Slosberg. (Rich and Cowan Ltd. 320 pp. 13s 6d. Through Whitcombe and Tombs Ltd.) This is the extraordinary autobiography of a young woman whose early years were spent in the witness and suffering of Russia’s red horrors. When she and her mother at last esaaped, it was to South Airies; and here Bertha Slosberg struggled through the education and self-educa-tion of creative- talents which, even in fear-ridden childhood, had thrust into expression. She endured and risked much in this struggle; for months she toiled in her own mine for the diamdnds that would buy her opportunity, but she toiled in vain. But in advertising and journalism she had better, n chequered, success; and when she organised the Mtetwa Troupe of Zulu Players, she found scope for herself and proved the artistic power in this native race. Thereafter. Miss Slosberg’s experience in the broadcasting and dramatic life of London led up to the fulfilment of her wish, to see tbi* power displayed and acknowledged on the London stage.