On The Basis
Of Hearsay
© F J Fishburn 2004
Author's note: "Opa" and
"Oma" are my grandfather and grandmother respectively. Max, Herman,
Dora and Yetty were my mother's siblings.
Part III (of 6): Enemy Aliens
[Ed note: To see accompanying photos click
here]
At 12 noon, Sunday 3 September 1939, Neville
Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, announced over the radio that we
were at war with Germany. The family were sitting silently round the
dining room table listening. It was a sombre gathering. I was lying
prone on the floor reading, as was my wont, legs waving in the air.
To me it was all very exciting. I didn't see anything to worry
about. We were going to bash Hitler and all would soon be well. But
the family had very different emotions. They were all crying, some
more quietly than others. Opa was chomping his dentures, a sign of
distress. Feelings were mixed Though they were all glad that some
challenge was at last being offered to Hitler's progress and hoped
that this might ease the plight of those Jews still in Germany -
little could anyone have imagined what was to come - I do not think
that anyone had any illusions about the difficulties ahead. They had
all seen at first hand evidence of Hitler's power and the almost
universal support he had in Germany. There was no guarantee that
this was a war we could win and any other outcome did not bear
thinking about. This time we would have nowhere to run to.
Immediately after the broadcast we heard the first air raid
warnings. I know of no sound more depressing than the wailing
modulations of the warning siren. It strikes fear and despondency in
me even now when I hear it, not simply because of its associations,
but because of its inherently devilish sound. The "all clear" is not
that much better but at least it carries a message of respite.
Everything that my family had built up over the
previous eighteen months was threatened. I was oblivious to all
this. I continued to live in my own small world, where my parents
had sheltered me from trouble. I knew nothing of their problems
except what I picked up from conversations. So far as I was
concerned the whole family seemed to share in a conspiracy of
silence. They would stop talking if I entered a room while they were
discussing something which were thought unfit for my ears, ranging
from local gossip or scandals, risque jokes - not that I would have
understood them - to illness, and machloikes, arguments
usually family disputes. These were frequent. Most concerned the
factory or matters financial. War was another of those topics from
which I had to be sheltered.
The outbreak of War led to two decisions which
affected me; the immediate one was that of my parents to send me
away to school as a boarder. The other, early in 1940 was to close
the Grey House and move to Guisborough. I had moved to The Firs
School in Nunthorpe, a village half way between Middlesbrough and
Guisborough. earlier in the year. I do not know why. I was not
consulted nor given any explanation. The change of schools may have
been dictated by the fact that it was a boarding school, and despite
Neville Chamberlain's "piece of paper", to which no one in my family
attached any credibility, war seemed inevitable and my parents would
want me out of the way if war came. Middlesbrough was an important
port, there was an R.A.F. Aerodrome at Thornaby not two miles from
our house, we were surrounded by iron and steel works, shipyards,
heavy industries, all likely targets for enemy bombers. Transport
was going to be a problem; though we had a car, petrol would be
virtually unobtainable. All these assumptions proved correct.
The first immediately visible impacts of the War
were the blackout and gas masks. The Grey House had very large
windows and these needed to be covered so as to allow no light to
escape. Even the slightest breach of the blackout regulations was
treated as heinous. For the large kitchen windows which had no
curtains, thick blackout material was stretched over specially made
wooden frames which had to be lifted into place. They were very
effective but heavy. Curtains had to be lined with similar material.
It was amazing how accurately the enemy managed to find our cities
despite these precautions. Windows were crisscrossed with tape to
avoid the glass splintering if a bomb dropped nearby. Gas masks
carried in a little cube-shaped cardboard box were issued to all.
Though it was an offence to go out without yours people got tired of
carrying these ungainly objects and before long I would have had
difficulty in finding my gas mask had it been needed. Rationing was
introduced; shortages soon became apparent. The young men
disappeared. I remember witnessing a particularly tearful farewell
between one of the maids, a small, chunky and very pretty girl, and
her fiancé.
The first months of the war were uneventful, so
far as we were concerned, the period known as the "phoney" war.
According to some newspapers, Chamberlain still thought an outright
war might be avoided. Most of the action appeared to be in Poland
and Finland, another far away country, which had been attacked by
Russia. Sympathies were with Finland and I would circle round the
garden, arms spread wide, pretending to be a Finnish plane attacking
the Russians. I did not know whether the Finns had any planes, but
nobody really cared. More casualties were caused by the blackout
than by enemy action. Bombing attacks had not yet started. The
British Expeditionary Force had not yet left for France, and so far
as we were concerned all was still quiet on the Western Front.
The owner and Headmistress of the Firs, Mrs M. was
a formidable woman, with blonde hair just turning to grey, tall, and
heavy boned. She was "d'un certain age" but seemed very old to me.
She wore thick glasses and had a slight squint which gave her a
somewhat lop-sided appearance. I had liked Mrs. Relph; I did not
like Mrs. M. She had no sense of humour, there was no fun in her. In
so far as Mrs. M. thought about it at all, which is improbable, I
doubt whether she liked me or even particularly noticed me. This
came as something of a shock, as, until then, I had been the centre
of the Universe. Mrs M.'s father was a clergyman whose knowledge of
the Classics included Hebrew. He would speak to me in what I can
only assume was biblical Hebrew, as one might wish to converse with
a Frenchman in his own language, and was disappointed that I had no
idea what he was saying.
After some months the school was evacuated to
Newbiggin-on-Lune a small pretty village in the Lake District. The
River Lune a tributary of the River Ribble seemed to run along the
High Street. After a short time we moved to Grayrigg, a small hamlet
not far away. I do not know why. Children were informed only on a
need-to-know basis, if at all. At Grayrigg we were accommodated in a
large house, Brownrigg Hall, the sort of place now popular as a
Country House Hotel.
I was from the first very unhappy at this school.
I did not like the school much in Nunthorpe but at least there I
still had regular contact with home. My becoming a boarder, and my
evacuation with it, had not gone without vociferous objection by me,
and Opa and Dora. Opa was appalled at the idea of sending his
grandson away. He believed that families should stay together. I had
not been away from home before. However, whatever the family
committee might say, my mother, when it came to my up-bringing, made
the decisions. If it was my parents' intention to subject me to a
crash course in Being English, they succeeded. To me, that school
was a prison house. I was very lonely, not because I needed or
missed my family, but, paradoxically, because I was rarely alone: I
was denied my privacy and my liberty. There was a strict routine for
everything. What we ate was regulated; what we wore was ordained. We
had to go to the toilet every morning and were not allowed to pull
the chain before Matron had inspected our stools. If we were unable
to produce any, she gave us spoonfuls of California Syrup of Figs,
which was sweet and actually quite pleasant. Matron examined our
hair for lice and our orifices for Heaven knows what. I felt all
this a terrible infringement of my dignity. Whenever illness was
suspected we were given some unpleasant medicine, such as Owbridge's
linctus, which wasn't as bad as some; one of the boys had to swallow
some foul smelling garlic tasting concoction for his asthma. The
cure was often worse than the disease. But what caused me the
greatest problem in adjusting was the total difference in cultures.
It was not no longer being an only and much spoiled child among a
large number of adults which upset me but being pitchforked into
what was for me an alien environment, a non-Jewish world, cold,
formal, unloving, lacking understanding and oppressive. When ten
years later I had to go into the Army, I found it a doddle by
comparison.
Meals, except breakfast for some reason, started
with grace: "For what we are about to receive the Lord make us truly
thankful" and were concluded with grace after meals: "For what we
have just received may the Lord make us truly thankful;" a far cry
from the several pages of the grace after meals we said at home,
though admittedly only on the Sabbath and Festivals, but at least at
home there was something to be thankful for. Here we had to eat
whatever food was served and leave nothing on our plates - "There's
a war on, don't you know~ food's scarce. It's a sin to waste. Think
of the poor children in Europe", was the usual refrain. My gourmet
days came much later in life, but even then I thought the food
awful. Though ready to do my patriotic duty I couldn't see that our
eating the uneatable would make any great contribution to the war
effort. John, one of my fellow pupils, could not abide onions. One
lunchtime only a few days after we had been evacuated potatoes
covered with a white sticky concoction purporting to be onion sauce
were served for lunch. I found this hard to swallow. John simply
refused to eat it.
"You will not leave the table until you have eaten
everything on your plate" "I'm not eating it" "You are" "I'm not!"
"Oh yes you are!" "Oh not I'm not" and the whole episode degenerated
into the traditional Pantomime routine which would have been funny
had we, John's school friends, not all been so distressed by what we
were being forced to witness. You would have thought from the
Bumbleish reaction that he had committed some heinous crime. No
doubt our headmistress and matron considered it such. He was not
allowed to leave the table until he had eaten the offending, not to
say offensive, food. So he threw it on the floor. He was red haired
and had the temper to match. There was a great struggle of wills. He
stood his ground manfully, but size and power told. Eventually he
had to give way, but he fought a good fight and was not so tested
again; the moral victory was his. I was upset and disgusted at the
whole episode. To me it was simply bullying, to show who was "boss".
I had a much easier way of dealing with any similar problem. I would
merely say, "I'm very sorry, I'd love to have that, but I can't
because I'm not allowed to." As I was the only Jewish boy in the
school, this could not be checked. There was sometimes even an
element of truth in this. But John was certainly not grateful for
what he had been forced to receive.
We had to write home weekly. Unfortunately there
was no reverse rule. Our letters were checked and censored, and
those we received were opened and read. I thought then and still do
that this was disgraceful, but it was in keeping with the
educational ideas of schools such as this. My father, not a great
correspondent but who had fine handwriting, usually wrote the
letters to me because Mother's handwriting was indecipherable.
Suddenly the letters came from my mother, or Dora. There was no
explanation until a few months later when Dad's letters suddenly
resumed, and I learned that he was "back". Back from what? I had no
idea he had been away.
Most possibilities had been catered for by the
family so far as foresight could go, but internment was the one
eventuality which had not been anticipated. The Government, fearing
an influx of German spies among Jewish refugees, decided, under the
Defence of the Realm Acts, a relic of the first War up-dated for the
occasion, to intern all suspected "enemy aliens". It was Churchill's
idea to "collar the lot" but this was not one of his finest hours.
Though none of the family (except Karl and he was not "family") had
any, let alone German, nationality, Opa, my father, Max and Herman
and Karl were all interned in the Isle of Man. For Opa, and others
like him, this was terrible. To have fled Hitler's Germany, to have
been given visas to settle here, to have established a business
providing employment where it was needed - and ironically on
Government contracts at the time and then to be arrested and
imprisoned like a criminal, was unconscionable. In fact, so idiotic
was the whole policy that among those interned was a Mr. Baum of
Middlesbrough who had seven sons all serving in the Army. He had
lived here for over 40 years and it had simply not occurred to him
to be naturalised. There were many others like him throughout the
country. This was illustrative of the paranoid and xenophobic
attitudes war engenders, and of a mentality which could give serious
credence to the rumour that Germans were dropping parachutists
disguised as nuns as spies. I often wonder who thinks up such
nonsense.
Mr. Edwards was asked to use his good offices to
secure the release of the menfolk. Whether it was due to his
intervention (if any) or whether matters simply took their course, I
do not know. Opa was released within a month and Dad, Max and Herman
within three months. To Yetti's distress her "poor Karl," as she
always called him, was not released for a year. Women were not
exempt from internment and though none of the women of my mother's
family suffered this indignity, Karl' s sister Lotte did.
Fortunately one or two senior personnel remained
to run the office, Mr. Peacock, Mr. Seidler and Joyce Almond. Mr.
Peacock was a slight, gentle, grey-faced, sick man; he suffered from
consumption and smoked some strange herbal cigarettes for his
condition. He died young. Mr. Seidler was another refugee, a mild,
shy man. I assume he was not interned because he did not come from
Germany. He was small and squat shaped; though very competent he
lacked confidence and gave the impression that he knew he was a born
loser. Joyce Almond was a secretary. She was intelligent, competent,
pleasant and exceedingly shy. Slightly handicapped physically, she
lacked self-confidence. There seemed some sort of friendship between
her and Mr. Seidler, they were both lonely, private and somewhat
lost souls. A romance between them would have been cheered by all;
everyone was willing them on. Regrettably, there was never, so far
as I am aware, and gossip would readily have filled the vacuum, any
evidence that there was. These three proved loyal servants of the
company. Jeanne came in to help in the office. She was a good
administrator and between them, my mother and my aunts, the business
was kept afloat, and, indeed flourished.
My mother, suspecting that the fare at an English
boarding school at any time, and even more so in wartime, would be
inadequate and uneatable, in good Jewish tradition regularly sent me
food parcels. These were opened and shared out. In all fairness all
food parcels were shared out, but as mine were the biggest and best
I lost out. I didn't mind this so much as the fact that Mrs. M.' s
two sons, and John Newton, the Matron's son, all pupils at the
school, were among the beneficiaries of this imposed largess. They,
of course, never received any food parcels and never made any
corresponding contribution. When Dora learned of this she was
furious and was convinced that the Head and the Matron, Mrs Newton,
had kept the best for themselves. There is no evidence either to
support or refute this allegation, but then the evidence would have
been consumed.
All the various bodily inspections did not prevent
epidemics of the usual childhood illnesses. The best time I had at
that school came when the rest had German measles, mumps and chicken
pox, all of which I escaped. While most of the school was laid up in
bed or quarantined I was free to roam. The gardens of the house
which we were occupying were extensive and pleasant. A track ran
down to a level crossing on the main Euston to Glasgow line, then
the old L.M.S. We were not far from Oxenholme, a major junction.
There was a signal box at the level crossing. I ran there as often
as I could to watch the trains. One day the signalman saw me hanging
on the crossing gates. "Do ye want to come up and have a look,
laddie?" he asked. Did I! I was up the wooden steps at the side of
the box before the words were out of his mouth. The signal box was
of traditional design, and quite small. Under the wide windows there
was a line of long levers, each with a different colour and a
polished silvery handle, with a grip, rather like hand brakes on old
vehicles. These controlled the various points and signals, and the
signalman pulled them forward and pushed them back using a cloth for
better grip. "Up" trains ran to and "Down" trains from London. He
explained how everything worked: "This blue lever moves the signal
for the up-train. The yellow one is the distance signal for the down
train" and so on. A telegraph bell announced the impending arrival
of a train, and for a few minutes all would be action; the signalman
had to shift the levers to change the signals and the points and
open those ahead of the train and close those it had just passed,
check the "road" ahead and alert the next box as the trains passed
from our section to his All was hustle and bustle and then suddenly
the train would appear and pass noisily by in a climactic moment,
oblivious of the efforts made to ensure its safe progress, spewing
black smoke from its stack and steam from every pipe; at speed if an
express, more leisurely if a freight train. This was romance,
energy, passion, life. The sense of power and the excitement were
almost unbearable. Then suddenly all would be silence, broken only
by the eponymous cries of the pee-wits and the songs of the thrushes
and other birds plentiful in the hedgerows. In the few minutes of
this oasis of quiet before the next train was due, my friend would
pour me out a cup of tea from his flask. Occasionally I would be
allowed to hold the levers while he pulled them. It was all done by
hand. Considerable strength was needed to move them, but I had the
strength of Hercules when required.
Due to the war most of the traffic was freight;
apart from the troop trains there were few passenger trains and
these were very long. Because of the steep incline towards Shap, the
highest point of the railway system in England, the trains going
north were usually double-headed, that is, pulled by two engines,
and there was often an extra engine at the back pushing. My day was
really made if I was lucky enough to catch sight of one of the great
streamlined maroon Coronation type 4-6-2 expresses, the LMS' s
answer to the East Coast Gresleys, one of which had not long before
set a new world speed record for a steam train. I experienced the
glamour and fascination of these wonderful steam engines, like
smoking dragons, with their clanking wheels and rhythmic carriages,
at close quarters. I could almost have touched them as they passed.
They may have been dirty and smelly and inefficient compared with
to-day's bland self-satisfied looking trains but each one of those
engines had its own character and personality. I would have given
anything to be the driver of one of those trains but the next best
thing was to be in the signal box. I went there whenever I could. It
was a friendly shelter, where I could be happy.
My only hope of escape from my own internment, as
I regarded my position - to me it really was a "prison house" - was
to get into another school. As my parents were now living in
Guisborough, I found out by accident that I was eligible for the
Grammar School there. Someone - I think it was Mr. Edwards the MP -
asked me what school I was at and whether I was going to go to the
Grammar School. Until then I knew nothing about it. I nagged my
parents to find out about this school; could I go there? My parents
must have appreciated just how miserable I was. My father went to
see the Headmaster. I couldn't wait for him to tell me what had been
said. When Dad got back he reported to mother and me: "It's a very
nice school, and Mr. Routh the Headmaster is a real English
gentleman. He told me 'we take boys who have passed the Scholarship
exam, (as the 11 plus was then known). They start at the age of 11
or 12. We do take a few fee-paying boys if there are vacancies and
they are up to standard.' I told him that you were only 9 but that
you were very unhappy at your school and that we felt you were
wasting your time there." My parents had never before suggested
that. "Mr. Routh said that though it would be quite unusual he would
make an exception and take you if you passed the "Scholarship." I
needed to hear no more. I resolved to take and pass the Scholarship.
I begged my parents to let me try. Dora and Opa needless to say also
became involved. "Of course he must try" Dora insisted. "It'll be no
problem for him" added Opa (in Yiddish), "but in any case, kein
breira, there is no other choice."
I do not know how it was done, but it was. Due to
the difficulties of wartime travel I could not take the papers in
the usual way at the Grammar School itself and arrangements were
made for me to sit the examination at the Vicarage in Kirby Stephen,
a nearby market town, in March 1941. The papers were sent to the
Vicar who was to invigilate. I took the examination in his study. He
was charming and kind, and made me feel very much at home. He opened
the envelope containing the exam papers in front of me and looked
over them swiftly. "Don't worry" he said "I'm sure you'll have no
trouble with these." The way he said it I thought he was going to
add, "Just ask me if there's anything you don't know." He ensured
that I had a constant supply of tea and biscuits. I cannot think of
pleasanter surroundings in which to take an exam. In all fairness to
Mrs. M, she must have co-operated in making the necessary
arrangements and seen to it that I was well enough prepared to sit
the exam. It would perhaps be unkind to think that she may have had
her own reasons.
I had not found the examination difficult, but I
had no idea whether or not I had done well. I resigned myself with a
heavy heart to possibly two more years at "the Firs". A few weeks
later, as we were looking forward to the respite of the Summer
holidays, I was unexpectedly called to Mrs. M's study, not, from
previous experience, a welcome prospect. I knocked at her door.
"Come!" I heard. As I closed the door behind me I wondered what bad
news awaited me - it was war time and bad news was commonplace - or
what further enormity I might be accused of; was the Meta affair to
be reopened? Just as I was mentally preparing my case for the
defence, I heard her say, with what I thought was a note of surprise
in her voice, "Congratulations! I've just heard you've passed the
Scholarship. I'm sure your parents will be delighted. The
Headmaster's letter says you can start at the Grammar School next
term", I received the news with great relief and joy. I suppose I
must have learned something at "the Firs." There was no purpose in
my remaining at the school any longer. Guisborough was comparatively
safe, so I went home.
Dora came to collect me. She disliked Mrs. M. and
despised the Matron, on sight. "That woman" she said, referring to
Mrs. M, "is just jealous of you, because you are so much cleverer
than her boys." I have no idea how she knew anything about their
intelligence, but Dora never needed facts to form her opinions. "As
for the matron," Dora went on "she's just a greedy bitch, trying to
get whatever she can." I pointed out that her son John was one of
the few friends I had at that school.
"I don't care" replied Dora "she's out to get as
much as she can." She was very protective to the point of paranoia
where I was concerned. She clucked around as Matron packed my
things. Matron, as if to vindicate my aunt's views, was on the look
out for cast-offs.
"Surely he won't be needing this?" she would say,
holding up some article of clothing. Dora was in no mood to be
generous,
"I'm sure his mother will want me to make sure
that he brings home ALL his things, and she can choose her own
charities, thank you very much" she replied. I was similarly
unrelenting in regard to my toys and books. Nothing was
intentionally left behind.
Dora stayed overnight at a nearby farmhouse which
provided bed and breakfast. As she was leaving, the farmer's wife
gave her a basket containing some large sandwiches well filled with
meat and turkey, egg, cheese and biscuits, some apples and a flask
of tea - fare fit for a king. There was enough for three.
""Ere's summat for yoursel' and t'lad. You'll be
glad of it" she told Dora, ''you've got a long way to go and t'
lad'll be hungry." "Thanks!" Dora replied, "but that's much too
much; I've asked the school to let him have some sandwiches. I'm
sure they'll give him something," "I wouldn't bank on 't; take
summat for him anyhow. I'm sure t'lad will be glad of it A growing
lad can always do with a bit extra. I know 'ow my lads eat!" "That
really is kind of you," said Dora "what do I owe you?" "Nay, lass,
you don't owe me nowt. Just get 'ome safely", replied her hostess,
and refused Dora's repeated offers of payment. They kissed and
parted like old friends.
A taxi took us the few miles to the little local
station with what hand luggage we could carry. The heavy trunk and
other things were sent on separately by carrier. When we had got a
little way on the train Dora looked at the packet the school had
given her; it seemed to be bleeding. She opened it carefully. It
contained some emaciated looking beetroot sandwiches on thin white
bread which was curling at the edges. Despite the war and rationing,
Dora threw these out of the window in disgust. With them went my
childhood.
Guisborough
When I arrived home, after kisses and hugs all
round, Oma expressed horror at my appearance. Though I was probably
as fit as I had ever been, she thought I was gaunt and
undernourished, " Oh dear, oh dear just look at him" she exclaimed"
It's a shame and disgrace how he looks, like a dried out hen. Come
sit down, child, and eat." Whatever the gastronomic deficiencies of
the School diet had been, it was well balanced and healthy. I had
never been fat, but to a Jewish grandmother of Oma's ilk any
suggestion of thinness was a sign of poverty and of bad health; a
condition which required immediate treatment. It was, above all, a
challenge. Oma fattened me up; she fed me thick soups, potatoes,
bread and butter (culled from the rations of other members of the
family); anything that would ensure weight gain. A Sumo wrestler
would have approved. The diet worked well; I have had a weight
problem ever since.
"Home" at this time was in Guisborough, a small,
pleasant, undistinguished country market town. The town, lay at the
foot of the Cleveland Hills, the highest point of which was
Roseberry Topping, at 930 feet the peak of the range and our local
"mountain", near which stood the monument to Captain Cook, born in
Marton, now a suburb of Middlesbrough, long before Middlesbrough
existed, the most famous son of the area before Wilf Mannion. It was
the northern gateway to the the North Yorkshire Moors, and the
coast, with its fishing villages of Runswick Bay, Robins Hood's Bay,
Staithes and on to Whitby and Scarborough. The fumes, smoke and dirt
of Middlesbrough seemed far away. It was a different, rural world.
The family had taken a house at 31 Park Lane, about five minutes
walk from the factory. It was the largest and only detached house in
the road but it still had only three bedrooms and two rooms
downstairs, a far cry from the spaciousness of the Grey House. The
population emigrating from the Grey House was much reduced, but it
was still large. I do not know how we all fitted into this little
house.
Guisborough gave me even more freedom and
independence than I had in Middlesbrough. But Oma hated Guisborough.
Immediately opposite the house were fields; the cows looked at us
sadly, as cows do, over their fence. Oma would point to them and say
to visitors rather bitterly, "Meet my neighbours." If the move from
Leipzig to Middlesbrough had been a culture shock then that to
Guisborough was even more so. Middlesbrough had few pretensions to
culture, but it had plenty of places of entertainment: three large
cinemas, including an Odeon built circa 1938 Art Deco style, the
Elite, the Gaumont, formerly the Opera House, and a number of
smaller cinemas - there were about eleven in all, including one - a
real flea pit this - which rejoiced in the name "The Grand
Electric". It had the Empire, a live variety theatre where all the
best acts appeared, and a lively amateur Little Theatre - where,
incidentally, some years later the best Mercutio I have seen was
played by one of the local Jewish members, Jack Adler. The Halle and
other orchestra and solo performers, such as Myra Hess and
Moiseiwitch included Middlesbrough on their regular concert tours.
Whatever its failings it was a sizable town with a population twenty
times that of Guisborough, catering for a large catchment area.
Guisborough had only its flea pit in Challoner Street, where every
Saturday morning you could see the weekly instalments, in glorious
jerky black and white grain, uninterrupted if you were lucky, for
the princely price of one penny, the Mark of Zorro, each episode
ending with the hero about to die. Like Pauline in the "Perils of
Pauline" he always survived. Though Middlesbrough was only nine
miles away, it might as well have been in another world.
Home was not the same somehow. Things seemed to
have changed while I was away, or perhaps I had. There was little
Lebensraum; though there were fewer of us, we were all on top of
one other in a way we had not been in the Grey House. I noticed
things which I had always taken for granted. It had never previously
occurred to me that my grandparents' habit of drinking tea from a
saucer, or sipping it from a teaspoon or wetting a lump of sugar in
the tea and then noisily sucking it, were other than normal. Opa
tended to attack his chicken rather like Charles Laughton's Henry
VIII. and no one dared to tell him not to slurp his soup or let his
noodles dangle as he sucked them up. Even the way I now held my
knife and fork, with the prongs pointing downward, and drank my soup
from the side of the spoon rather than pour it in from the front,
differed from the rest of the family. This wasn't so easy either
with a pointed continental spoon. Even the spoons were different.
They wondered what I was doing when I tried to balance peas on the
back of my fork. The school food may not have been good but my table
manners were excellent.
Even the food which I used to enjoy I no longer
found palatable. The heimische delicacies such as helzel,
literally "small neck", but actually the skin of the neck of a
chicken or turkey filled with stuffing which consisted largely of
chicken fat, breadcrumbs and whatever happened to be spare, and
lokshen, noodles, pudding, and other specifically
designed-to-fatten foods, had lost their appeal. I now loathed
chicken fat, Oma's equivalent of dripping and used in the same way,
in any form, and I spent ages skimming it off the top of my soup.
Even my taste buds had been anglicized by a diet of such delicacies
as tapioca and rice pudding, not actually bad except as served at
the school, overcooked and tasteless vegetables, soggy white bread,
and the sort of food generally which give English cooking a bad
name. So distorted had they become that I disguised my chicken soup
by adding large dollops of Marmite and for a time I even liked
Brussels sprouts. I now enjoyed best fish or egg and chips, roast
beef (albeit a rare treat) and Yorkshire pudding (often served
without any accompanying meat), even Welsh rarebit, though not the
tapioca and rice pudding which had been served almost daily and
often more than once daily, at school. I no longer felt at home at
home.
I was also getting older. I became critical of my
elders, and embarrassed by them. These feelings were directed
primarily at Oma, somewhat unfairly, but she was the least able to
adapt and hence most represented the old world. For all Miss
Johnson's efforts, Oma could still hardly speak a word of English.
Yiddish and German were so natural to me that I had not noticed
before that our conversations were held in different languages. My
world and that of my family were by now in different hemispheres. It
was not only my family from whom I was becoming isolated. Between
returning home and starting at the Grammar School I had no friends.
I knew no one in Guisborough. I lost touch with Peter Unwin and I
believe he himself went to boarding school. The Gildons still lived
in Middlesbrough but because of transport difficulties I saw nothing
of them. My social life, such as it was, consisted of going to the
factory and "borrowing" one the girls' bicycles left propped against
the walls. But as before, being alone didn't worry me.
Guisborough's historical pride and joy was The
Priory, one of the ruins that, in the words of the old music hall
song, "Cromwell knocked about a bit". It had been an impressive
building. The Grammar School founded in 1561, and one of the oldest
in the country, stood in the old Priory grounds and was an off-shoot
of the Priory. The school badge, a pointed double oval with a late
mediaeval icon of Jesus in an inner oval and the words "Schola
Grammaticalis Jesu de Guisborough" forming a border in the outer,
bore witness to the school's ecclesiastical origins. The School had
strong Church of England links.
