Yes, I did survive the July 7 London bombings

By Alan Charlton

“The show must go on” is part of the credo of theatre, but on July 7 I found that it isn’t always observed. On my way to London for performances at the Globe and the Lyceum, I discovered that all trains had been halted and that a series of explosions had shut down the underground.

Soon, like millions of others, I was glued to the television, watching the horrific results of four bombs set off by suicide bombers.

It would be pointless to attempt to convey the sense of outrage and revulsion that people expressed, especially as it was largely identical to that after 9/11. Nor is there any value in dwelling on the fact that had the bombs been set off just over an hour later, I might even have been on one of the trains that were targetted; after all, the same might be said of millions of others.

In any case, the likelihood that I would have been precisely in a particular place at a particular time was small. What I did notice among the immediate repercussions was that early on in the day the announcement was made that all London theatres would be closed, the first time that this had happened since the Second World War.

In fact, the whole situation was very reminiscent of London during the war. People reacted with the same stoicism. They registered the same determination to refuse to be cowed by the threat of terrorism.

They had shown similar fortitude under attack from the Nazis. They had shown similar fortitude under the attacks by the IRA. They would continue to show the same fortitude. Britain would carry on regardless, and it did.

Soon after the bombings I was in Italy, where, of course, I was besieged by questions about the situation, even though I knew no more than people throughout the world, thanks to the wonders of mass media.

I was struck by the reaction of some doctors I spoke to in Verona. First of all they expressed total admiration for the way the emergency had been dealt with, the London emergency plan having been put into effect with admirable efficiency.

They went on to express equal admiration for the people of London as they faced with stoic calmness the calamity that had occurred in their midst. London within a very short time was functioning fairly normally.

The lesson for the Italians was obvious: they hoped that their people would be able to acquit themselves as well as the British should they be faced with a similar situation, something which they see as all too likely. They are no strangers to acts of terrorism, and many Italian newspapers stated that the most likely city to be targeted next is Rome.

I hope this never happens. Ordinary people throughout the world should be able to go about their daily lives without being attacked by extremists.

Life in Italy continues as does life in London. Within days of the London outrage, I found myself doing the customary things any vacationer does. I dined at a favourite restaurant in Borghetto, on the bank of the Mincio, where tables scattered among the trees are covered with crisp white tablecloths as though the swans had flown up off the river and settled among the diners.

We relished tortellini made with wafer thin pasta and stuffed with truffles; we indulged in tender fillets of succulent horse meat; we drank deep red, full-bodied Amarone and Valpolicella. We sat in the soft Italian night, surrounded by the musical chatter and laughter of fellow diners.

However, just as we left the restaurant, passing the little floodlit town huddled on the other side of the bridge, the heavens opened, rain poured down, and lightning flashed, while thunder rolled. It was as though we had suddenly been plunged into the last act of Rigoletto.

Over the next few days I did more of the touristy things. I wandered through Verona in the early morning as shutters were thrown open like butterfly wings and into Piazza Erbe, calm and beautiful on an early Sunday morning before the stalls were set up, intruding on one of the most beautiful spaces in the world.

See THE SHOW – Page 14

The show didn’t go on in Italy either

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I revisited the Scrovegni Chapel in Padova, the first time I had been able to since Giotto’s fabulous frescoes had been restored, and was deeply moved by the dazzling brilliance of this glorious work.

I spent delightful times revisiting old friends, chatting over plates laden with linguine laced with sauces rich with the taste of olive oil, garlic, and rabbit or full-flavoured carpaccio of beef and delicate prosciutto, while we continued to savour the produce of the vines of Masi and Dal Forno.

Even here, however, I realized that the show doesn’t necessarily go on. Unseasonable rain made it pointless to attend the opera at the Arena in Verona; everyone assured me that I would hear at most half of any opera because rain would certainly end the performance.

I realized that this was all too true: in the past, had I not had to attend four performances of Aida before actually seeing the entire work? So once again, even in Italy, I also realized that the show did not necessarily have to go on.

Returning to England and the news of the discovery of the identity of the four bombers, I discovered that the British were justly proud, not only of their own grace under pressure, but also of the efficiency of the police in carrying out their investigation.

Life is very much back to normal. The people are generally confident that they face no immediate threats. Except for the grieving families of the victims of the atrocities, it’s business as usual, and the theatres are once again open.

True, I have nothing to review, but I realize that even if in a literal sense there are times when the show does not go on, in a metaphorical sense for the people of London, just as the people of New York, the show must and does go on.