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 IV (of 6): Bliss at School
[Ed note: To see accompanying photos click
here]
I was late for school, two days late to be exact. I had put on my
new school uniform for the first time, blazer, white shirt, school
tie, short grey trousers, knee length grey socks, and black cap. The
blazer and cap carried the school's crest. I felt very grown up and
proud of myself as I left home to walk to school on my own. Oma made
sure I had some breakfast, and sandwiches for lunch, though I was
far too nervous with anticipation to bother about food. When I
eventually arrived on the first Monday in October 1941 I had no idea
where to go or what to do. I had never even seen the place. I took
the footpath which led past the Priory to the front gate. There was
no one around. I wondered for a moment whether I had come on the
wrong day. Someone who turned out to be the caretaker saw me
wandering around. I explained that I was new. "They're all at
prayers," he said "You'd better wait in the Headmaster's office"
where he led me. The Headmaster, Mr. Routh, turned up a quarter hour
later. He was a no-nonsense person, but kindly. Tall and balding he
walked with a slight forward stoop as if about to break into a run,
his gown billowing behind him. He was a graduate of Trinity College,
Oxford with a tendency to snobbishness. He was expecting me.
"Ah, Fishbane," he mispronounced my name but I was too scared to
correct him. "Your father did explain that you would be late because
of your New Year" he said. "I'm glad to see that you keep your
religion. So far as I know you're the first Jewish pupil we've had
at this school. I am sure there's a lot we can learn from you.
Though you've got a scholarship, because the rest of your year are
nearly all at least two years older than you" he went on "I'm going
to start you in form IB, and see how you get on. Come along and I'll
give you your things and then I'll take you to your form room. Oh,
and by the way, only staff and sixth-formers are allowed to use the
front entrance. You were seen coming in. Don't do it again. Use the
main gate." I didn't dare tell him that I didn't know where that
was, but I soon found out.
We went upstairs to a store room full of sports gear and
stationery. He rummaged around and took items off various shelves~
he handed me two football shirts, football shorts and socks and
boots, two gym shirts, shorts and shoes, and a bag to carry them in,
all items new to me. My shirts had green collars. "We have three
houses, Challoner (whose colour is green, Pursglove, yellow and
Bruce blue. These names all have some particular local historical
significance. House points are awarded for scholastic and sporting
success. I'm putting you in Challoner" he explained "that's the most
successful house at the moment". He then handed me text books,
exercise books, pads, pencils and the like. These were all free. The
School uniform was obligatory and not free. When I went shopping for
this with my mother she complained throughout, not so much about the
financial expense which did not exactly please her, but more about
the amount of clothing coupons which were needed. In the cold
northern winter long trousers would have been welcome but you were
not allowed these until you were 14. This rule did not make
allowance for differing growth rates and produced some comical
sights.
After fitting me out, the Head took me to what was to be my
classroom for the next year, to meet the form master, Ken Spedding,
a small youngish energetic man who seemed as if about to be let off
a leash, and my new colleagues.
"Here's another laddie for you, late but welcome just the same," the
Head said to him and disappeared.
"Glad to see you. What's your name?" Ken Spedding asked.
"Freddy," I replied. There was a howl of laughter. I was puzzled; I
had no idea what was so funny.
I didn't think there was anything strange about my name. Perhaps it
was my accent which had not yet acquired a full Yorkshire brogue.
"Very funny!" he said coldly, "What's your surname?" I didn't know I
should have answered "Fischbein". I had never heard of anyone being
called by their surname. I'd always been called "Freddy" and I was
"Freddy" ever afterwards to all in the school, from the youngest boy
to the Head.
I had missed the first-day-of-term fight for the
most desired desks, those at the back. There was only one space left
when I arrived, one half of a big black wooden double desk. The
other half was occupied by Tommy Dalton who became my best friend.
In due course I added my initials to those of previous generations
already carved in the lid. Tommy was the son of a farmer from
Lingdale. He was small, fair haired and good looking His cheeks had
the warm red colouring of an autumn apple. He was a quiet, charming
boy, but not one of the academic high flyers.
On the next day, the Tuesday, I took my place with
the rest of my form at the front of the school hall. The school day
usually began with assembly at which the daily act of worship took
place at the comparatively late time of 9.15, as most pupils had a
long way to come and the buses were old and slow. The Headmaster and
staff sat on a platform looking like unhappy crows in their black
gowns. The classes sat in order of their year with first at the
front and the sixth form at the back. On sports days and other
ceremonial occasions the teachers presented a colourful sight in
their full University gowns and tasselled mortar boards. The
Headmaster led the daily prayers, one of the prefects read the daily
lesson, we sang psalms and hymns. The psalms were sung in what was
to me a strange sort of chant; these did not worry me as they came
from the Old Testament, but I was a little uneasy about the readings
from the New Testament and the Hymns, though I soon got to know them
well. I didn't really want to pray to Jesus or revere Mary. I had
nothing personal against them, but I wasn't comfortable. I felt
rather like a stranger at a party. I compromised by keeping silent.
After the prayers the Headmaster read out the day's announcements,
and we all went off to our classrooms.
After one full week at school I had to miss
further days for Succoth, the Feast of Tabernacles, which comes
immediately after Yom Kippur. It was some four weeks before I
completed another full week at the school, and my classmates already
envied the number of "holidays" I enjoyed. Being the only Jewish boy
in the school was never a disadvantage, except when the Sabbath or
Festivals prevented me from participating in activities on those
days. Mr. Routh was a lay reader in the Church; all previous
headmasters had been clergymen. As a religious man he was far more
insistent on my observance of my religion than I wished to be. As
for my colleagues I felt that they rather valued my uniqueness. No
other form had a Jewish boy; I was rather like a pet rabbit.
Strangely there were comparatively few pupils who
came from or lived in Guisborough. The catchment area from which
most of my colleagues came included the surrounding towns and
villages - Loftus, Lingdale, Skinningrove, Carlin How, Boosbeck,
Brotton and other localities with similar wonderful names. They came
mostly by school bus. Those who lived near enough walked or cycled
to school. They were nearly all the sons of artisans, farmers,
steelworkers, miners, small shopkeepers. I was one of the few
representatives of the middle class if I could be counted as
anything, not that it made any difference to anyone. We were
considered to be the local intellectual elite and our parents were
proud of us. I suppose many of us had an exaggerated idea of our
importance and tended to look down on those who remained in
secondary school. Most of my class had graduated from the local
primary schools, and already had friends at the school. Though I
missed the start of term, knew no-one and had no common background
with anyone else, I easily made friends and was fully accepted at
once.
We had moved to Guisborough to be near the
Factory. Despite, or perhaps because of, the war the business
flourished. It was hard work. They had been awarded Government
contracts for Army and R.A.F shirts. Officer's shirts were no
problem as the materials were top quality poplin. Shirts for other
ranks were a different matter. The serge Khaki material was thick
and hard to work with the available machinery which was not designed
to take such heavy material. The machines kept breaking down and
spare parts were hard to get especially as most of the machines had
been brought over from Germany and had had to be adapted to work at
all. Opa's and my mother's combined skill and ingenuity for
makeshift solutions eventually overcame the difficulties, but never
entirely satisfactorily. The wearers of these garments,
unfortunately, had more important matters to concern them than the
fit of their shirts, which in all too many cases sadly soon became
redundant.
Opa kept a close watch on the battlefields. To
Oma's chagrin he pinned a huge map of Europe on the dining room
wall. After Dunkirk, when the centre of operations moved from Europe
to Africa, he rolled up the map of Europe and replaced it with a map
of Africa. When the war returned to the mainland of Europe, with the
German invasion of Russia, he needed two maps. He had no difficulty
in understanding the news broadcasts and reading the newspapers. He
listened to every bulletin and scoured the sadly depleted daily
papers. When I was home from school he and I would plot the
movements of armies with coloured pins and flags, often arguing
about their exact placement. We discussed every move the Germans and
their Axis allies might make and planned our counter-strategies,
with the same measure of success as, or possibly greater than, the
Allied High Command. We certainly lost fewer men. Every German
advance across the desert towards Egypt, with its potential threat
to Palestine, caused alarm, and every successful counter-attack by
the English Army produced corresponding relief. Names previously
unheard of such as Tobruk, Bizerta, Mersa Matruh, Benghazi, to say
nothing of El Alamein became the stuff of daily conversation.
Opa limited himself to those centres of
operations, and an enemy, he could understand. He had no interest in
the war in the Far East. That might as well have been on the Moon.
"Wass treib mann sich arum mit yenem Japanese
ganovim. What are they wasting their time for with those
Japanese crooks?" he commented. "Sie konnen
sie nicht aufhaltenjeszt. und den schon?
They can't stop them, and who cares? Daveil
wier verlieren unzere schiffe and flugzeuge und menner die die Nazis
besser kempfen sol/te. We're losing valuable warships and
aircraft and men who should be fighting the Nazis. Es wird uns
vie! hilfen den Japanische ganiff zu schlagen. ganz unmoeglich, und
Hitler gewinnt hier. It wouldn't do us much good to beat the
Japanese crooks, which we can't do anyhow, if Hitler wins here.
Ein sach ein mal und nicht injedem loch kikken. Do one thing at
a time and don't go looking in every hole." He resented the waste of
effort and manpower which the war in the Far East involved. He had
no imperial ambitions, beating Hitler was his priority. Looking at
the singular lack of success in the war against the Japanese at the
time, the loss of Singapore, Malaya, the sinking of our major
warships in Harbour, and disaster everywhere until the Americans
stopped the rot, who can say his strategy was wrong?
But the war, despite rationing, the blackout, the
absence of young men, the grim headlines, the defeats and disasters,
the blitz on London and other cities, still seemed far away from our
northeastern corner of the world. Churchill had offered nothing but
blood, sweat, toil and tears and he delivered on his promise.
However we had not yet had to fight on the beaches or in the
streets. For the first time in over a decade there was no
unemployment in the area. No one went hungry indeed many had never
been so well fed. There was little to spend your money on. Most
commodities were subject to price controls, and black marketeering
and profiteering were severely dealt with by the Courts, though the
area was not sufficiently affluent to attract an active underworld.
The fighting itself was far away, and to us in the
North even the threat of invasion in 1940 had no immediate impact.
We saw little of the war as war, but I did witness one "incident"
during an Army exercise in Guisborough. Civilian traffic was
supposed to have been banned from the roads on that day. It was all
very realistic and exciting, with smoke, bullets, bombs and the
like. Suddenly a motor cycle appeared through the smoke. Blinded, he
rode straight into a Bren gun carrier and suffered fatal injuries.
Our part of the North East did not suffer the
destruction inflicted on London and the Midlands, and other large
cities. We certainly did not particularly notice them in
Guisborough. Middlesbrough had air raids, some causing considerable
damage. Many attacks were simply "hit and run" raids, which caused
more alarm than damage. But damaged buildings were repaired and life
continued. There was an official silence about which city was
bombed. The local papers would say that a "town in the North East"
had suffered air raids, as if the Germans were unaware of their
targets. The enemy would immediately identify the town or area in
question, in their own news bulletins, and the local papers would
then say: "It can now be revealed..." "Who", in the words of the
song, "are you kidding Mr. Hitler?"
Our greatest direct threat in fact came not from
the enemy but from one of our own aircraft. The Grey House was only
a few minutes flying time from the RAF airfield at Thornaby and
directly under one of the flight paths. Returning badly damaged from
one mission and coming in to land, a Wellington bomber suddenly lost
power. It brushed the trees of our house and dived into the house
immediately opposite, not 25 yards away. It could as easily have hit
the Grey House, which fortunately was empty as we were all in
Guisborough at the time.
The effects of the war were felt in ways other
than from enemy action. A whole new body of laws was enacted. It now
became a criminal offence, among other things, to be absent from
work, to fail to carry out firewatching duties, or to breach the
blackout regulations. The local papers regularly reported
prosecutions for rationing offences, particularly clothing coupon
trading. A great scandal was caused - at least the papers made the
worst of it - when a well-known local solicitor was jailed for
clothing coupon offences. The Magistrates did their bit for the war
effort by handing down severe penalties for minor infractions. But
much more distressing and serious were the increasing column inches
of military casualties appearing in the local newspaper, the Evening
Gazette.
As the war progressed it seemed that Teesside,
though it had some heavy air raids, had not been chosen as a major
target by the enemy. In fact probably as much damage was done by
kids with matches who succeeded in burning down the town's largest
department stores, Binns, and Dickson & Benson, as by the Germans.
As the threat of air raids appeared to have receded, Opa decided we
should return to Middlesbrough. The Grey House had never been
completely closed as we often went back there at the weekends and
for Jewish holidays. We moved back to Middlesbrough in the autumn of
1942. Oma had always hated Guisborough; she found living in such
"goyish" non-Jewish, surroundings difficult. Though Opa liked being
near the factory because he could spend more time under his precious
machines, he too preferred to live where there was a Jewish
community; though he was not frum, orthodox, he found comfort
in the proximity of a synagogue.
Opa had an air raid shelter built in the Grey
House by inserting a reinforced false ceiling in the four feet wide
passage behind the dining room. This might not have been strong
enough to protect us in case of a direct hit on the house, though
more probably it would simply have caved in on us thus adding to the
casualty list but fortunately this was never put to the test. The
optimism which took us back to wartime Middlesbrough soon seemed a
little premature. One night about a week after we had more or less
settled back in the Grey House I was shaken awake by my mother,
"Come quickly, the air raid warning has gone and we can hear 'planes
and bombs." I was fast asleep and had heard nothing. She wrapped a
blanket round me and we ran downstairs. I was too tired to be
terrified at first, but soon the sounds of the guns firing, the
throb of aircraft engines and the sound of bombs falling, it was
hard to know where, removed any sense of safety. Oma started wailing
"We'll all be killed. What have we done to deserve this?' She was
not one for the stiff upper lip. The menfolk had disappeared
outside. Mother was so concerned with Oma that she had little time
to worry about herself, but then she never did. I never saw my
mother show any fear. Yetti, who was with us at the time, I'm not
sure why but Karl was off somewhere and she didn't want to be alone,
also wept, "What about my poor Karl? Where is he?' We didn't know
and no one really cared. Mother didn't stay in the shelter, she went
to the kitchen and made us all tea. She had become anglicized to the
extent that a cup of tea was second only to chicken soup as a
panacea for all ills.
There were other bad nights when we sat cowering
in that narrow corridor thinking our end was imminent, terrified by
the sound of bombs falling nearby, and even more so by the staccato
din of the anti-aircraft guns only a few hundred yards away, when
the house rattled as if about to collapse. It was hard to know
whether the noise and fury came from our own anti-aircraft guns, or
from enemy action. It was probably both. Though the noise was
frightening I think silence was even worse. With the sound of guns
and bombs you knew that something, however nasty, was happening. In
silence the tension simply built up and you wondered what was coming
next; the wait for the "all-clear" was an anxious one.
Opa, not one for sitting still, had got himself
made an Air Raid Warden like Dad and Max, despite his alleged lack
of English. When there was an air raid he would put on his tin hat
and insist on patrolling outside.
"Sigmund, bleibt duo Geh nicht aroiz,
Sigmund stay here, don't go out," Oma would plead tearfully. I never
knew why she called him Sigmund when his name was Selig.
"Ich setzt nich du da weil die bomben fallen,
I'm not sitting her while the bombs are falling" He would reply.
"Und wass kannst du helfen mit die bomb en,
And how can you help with the bombsT' she went on.
"Ich kann wass ti'in, I
can do something," he would reply unconvincingly and unspecifyingly.
And he would put on his wellies and stride out, all five feet five
inches of him, moustache bristling, puffing his Manikin cigar in
defiance of all blackout regulations, holding his stirrup pump and
bucket of water to dowse any incendiary bomb which might land
nearby. I don't think he ever used them seriously though he always
seemed to get water all over himself We did have some incendiaries
land in the garden once, but Opa managed to be elsewhere. It wasn't
bravery that made him defy the bombs, he said he just couldn't bear
to be cooped up with a lot of wailing women. Out in the open he
could at least keep in touch with what was happening in the skies
above, or so he thought.
The undulating sound of the air raid siren always
sent my stomach down to my boots and the "all clear" was eagerly
awaited, often for so long that we thought it would never come. I
think we were more worried about Opa's pretensions as an Air Raid
Warden than any harm to ourselves, because we were protected, though
sitting in a air raid shelter at any time under any circumstances is
unpleasant. We were lucky; we were spared the experience of really
heavy bombing, we were in our own house, not in a large communal
shelter or an Anderson shelter, little more than a hole in the
ground, and we had heat and light which usually seemed unaffected by
the bombing but even when it was, we had candles. We had comforts
denied to so many.
The war had one pleasant and perhaps unexpected
consequence, which was that towns all over the country which had
seen little in the way of orchestras and musicians now began to
receive regular visits. Middlesbrough found itself on the concert
circuit of players like Myra Hess, Clifford Curzon and Benno
Moiseiwitch. The Halle Orchestra under John Barbirolli gave a series
of concerts at the Town Hall during the Autumn and Winter months. My
parents had season tickets.
One Saturday afternnon in December - I was 11 at
the time - my father said to me:
"Your mother's not feeling well. I've got her
ticket spare for a concert; do you want to come?" "No," I replied
"not really." What I actually thought was that music was soppy, and
who wanted to be seen with their Dad at a concert? I had no interest
at that time in music. I thought it "cissie" an image I was trying
to throw off.
"Come on," he cajoled "You'll enjoy it. Don't be
such an old stick-in-the-mud. I don't want to waste a good ticket,
and I don't like going on my own. Come on; don't be silly. Anyhow,
you'll be doing me a favour." Rather than waste the ticket, I went
with him. The car was laid up in the garage "for the duration," as
the saying was at the time, its axles resting on bricks. We went by
bus, cheapest fares in the country, 1d return for me 2d for Dad.
The Town Hall was Middlesbrough's contribution to
the mock Gothic style, but an impressive grey stone building
nonetheless, a symbol of nineteenth century civic pride. We went in
to our seats. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible hoping no
one would see me; fat chance with Dad around. He knew everybody, or
acted as if he did, cheerfully greeting all and sundry. Even if he
didn't know them, they all seemed to know him. "Hello Jack, how are
you. How's Berta?" "Hello Mr. Fishburn how's Mrs. Fishbum? This your
lad? Fine fellah!" and so on. "Who's that?" I said to Dad as he
waved cheerfully to one stranger. "That's the Chief Constable" and
"who's that?" "The Town Clerk" "and that one over there?" "I've no
idea". They were all probably people he had met at the barber's.
The lights dimmed not fully, as I had expected, as
they did in the cinema or theatre, but only slightly. The conductor
came on, bowed to the audience and almost in one movement as he
turned he raised his hand and the music started. I had one of the
most wonderfully exciting experiences in my life. It was as if I had
been struck by lightning. I was entranced, bewitched; I had
discovered music. One of the items on the programme was Dvorak's New
World Symphony, appropriately, as a whole new world had opened for
me. Concerts generally included an Overture, a Concerto, a Symphony
and some other piece, possibly a tone poem or Suite. I cannot recall
the opening work. The Concerto was Beethoven's "Emperor"- I think:
Clifford Curzon was the soloist - and the final item was Bizet's
L"Arlesienne Suite." This was not an exacting musical diet, but I
had been to Elysium. If I had nothing else to be grateful for to my
father, that alone would have been enough.
Dad's barbers, Bell & Dyson, were just across the
road from the Town Hall. He went every other Saturday afternoon
until television started. I don't know why he needed to go so often
because he was nearly bald, and I'm not sure which of his two hairs
needed attention, doubtless he alternated them. He really went for a
shave and hot towels, a sort of beauty treatment for men, and he
would lie back luxuriating in the barber's chair with his nose just
peeking out. I think it was as much as anything an excuse to get
away from the family, and have a men's gossip, and I can't say I
blamed him. I went with him when I could no longer put off having my
hair cut, short-back-and-sides, threepence for kids. There were no
appointments; the very idea would have raised peals of laughter You
just sat and waited your turn. Dysons was a very masculine
establishment typical of the time. It consisted of a long thin room,
with dark red leather seats. I say "leather" but I suspect they were
Rexine and they, like their occupants and their attendants, had seen
better days. The barbers' chairs and basins were on the right hand
side as you entered You sat as you waited along the opposite wall
which also had a few low tables with old newspapers and magazines
scattered around, some with pictures that Mr. Thomas would not have
approved of. Barbers supplied their customers' requirements beyond
and above haircuts but I was too young to know about them.
Despite the return to Middlesbrough, I stayed on
at Guisborough Grammar School. I was very happy there and had no
wish to change schools, despite the fact that Acklam Hall school to
which I could have transferred, was only a few minutes walk from my
home. But I also had a transport problem. The distance was no
greater than that which many of my mates had to travel but they had
school buses laid on. I didn't want to travel with the rest of the
family, even had there been room for me. Not only was Bob, their
supposedly regular taxi, far too umeliable but I preferred to go on
my own. So I went by train. It was utterly reliable, even in war
time and whatever the weather. Bob might not turn up, buses were
often held up, or unable to cope with the steep hills in winter, but
the train never failed. The P bus took me to the station, where the
Guisborough train had its own platform. It got me to Guisborough
just in time for start of school at 9.15. From time to time we had
in the station at Middlesbough, one of the great Pacific 4-6-2
engines, never seen there in peacetime, even occasionally one of the
Gresley streamliners, which were being used to pull troop or even
goods trains. There was always the potential excitement of seeing
one of these.
Dad and my uncle Joe, recently married to Dora,
often went for lunch together at the "Fox Inn" just round the corner
from their Fountain Street office. This was only a few minutes walk
from the school and it was convenient for me to go there in my lunch
hour to see Dad from time to time, when I needed a "little extra".
This was often the only time that I had the chance to talk to him
and I would take the opportunity to have something better than the
school lunch. As in nearly every public house or restaurant in the
country the radio was always on for the news. One day we heard a
broad Yorkshire accent say: "This is the one o'clock news and this
is Wilfred Pickles reading it." This was such a shock after the
smooth BBC English tones of the usual announcers, Alvar Liddell,
Stuart Hibberd with his silky and confidence boosting tones whatever
disaster he was announcing, and John Snagge, that even the diners in
a North Yorkshire hostelry were all convulsed with laughter. The
experiment of having newsreaders with regional accents did not last
long.
Opa had never been ill. He was always sprightly
and active; his jet black hair showed no tinge of grey. His 61st
birthday fell exactly 7 days after my own twelfth birthday. He
seemed fit and well. A few days after his birthday he collapsed. He
was rushed to Hospital, a tumour on the brain was diagnosed. There
had been no sign, no warning, no indication of any sort, that
anything was wrong. There was no treatment then available, no
chemotherapy, but even had there been, it would not have helped. It
was too late. The medical world could do nothing for him, he was
sent home to die. Unfortunately Opa was a fighter. He had no wish to
die. His greatest desire had been to see my barmitzvah. He fought
the illness; his struggles were in vain. There was no resisting the
tumour's rapid growth.
My family, in their usual over-protective way,
tried to shield me from what was happening, but the crisis, the
comings and goings of medical men, the anguish, the tears, the
despair could not be hidden. A sense of deep gloom pervaded the
house, the factory, the very air. Everything conceivable was done.
More and more specialists were consulted. Prayers were said in the
synagogue; Opa, in accordance with Jewish tradition was given a new
name - Chaim, which means life. It was all in vain. The maloch
hamoveth, the angel of death, Oma cried, had him in his grasp.
Within three weeks he had deteriorated pitiably. I was not allowed
to see him, until very near the end, when he asked to see me. I was
taken in to his bedroom. I was horrified at what I saw. He was
propped up by several pillows in his huge bed and was hardly
visible. His black hair had turned completely white; his face was
haggard; his jaw hung loose; his eyes rolled loosely in their
sockets, he could barely talk. At first I wanted to run away, but I
was paralysed. I could not move; I could not speak; I could not cry;
I could do nothing. This wonderfully vital, active man had become
some pitiable object. I looked at him for what seemed ages, but
probably was no more than a few seconds He looked at me out of his
rolling eyes, and said, in Yiddish, in a barely audible voice:
"Kim zu mir, kim -Come to me, Freddele, come here". I went to
him and he held me close to him, he kissed me and I could not, would
not, let him go. I was numb with shock. All I could focus on were
the mushroom size and shaped warts on his neck which I used to annoy
him by tweaking. This wonderful man, whom I so adored, and who so
loved me, was dying and soon would be no more and nothing could be
done about it. He died a few hours later, on July 28 1943, 11 months
before my barmitzvah.
Opa was buried the next day in accordance with
Jewish tradition. Before the funeral the mourners put on old clothes
and each had a garment ritually cut or torn by the Rabbi as a sign
of mourning. It seems to symbolise the cutting of the life line, or
the connection between the dead and the living. It is particularly
traumatic and usually accompanied by great wailing and shedding of
tears and in my emotional family the wailing was great. The family
was well-known by now. An immense crowd, the whole Jewish community
and many dignitaries from other North Eastern communities and even
from Manchester and London attended the funeral, all assembled by
word of mouth. After the funeral Oma, and my uncles and aunts, the
official mourners, returned to the Grey House to sit Shiva.
This is the week of mourning during which the mourners have to sit
on uncomfortable, low chairs, and are not allowed out except on the
Sabbath. The house itself seems to mourn. Mirrors are covered,
pictures turned to the wall. During this period the bereaved are
brought food and sustenance as they can do nothing for themselves;
that, at least, is the theory. One of the rooms was turned into a
temporary synagogue for the week. Prayers were said at home thrice
daily. There was a full minyan, that is ten Jewish men above
the age of 13, required to enable the male mourners to say
Kaddish, the mourners' prayer. Admittedly the family provided
most of the necessary quorum. Rabbi Miller in accordance with
tradition delivered a eulogy on the first night, speaking from the
heart, and others, some from out of town and representing causes
which Opa had supported, also had their say paying warm tributes to
Opa. I did not have to sit shiva but I was there most of the
time, and for all the prayers. The school holidays had begun so I
did not even have school to escape to.
It seemed at times, and this was one of them, that
the Grey House had elastic walls. We managed to house all out of
town visitors who had to stay over. Responsibility for the domestic
arrangements fell on the in-laws and the maids. Jeanne took over.
She ensured no one went hungry. During the course of the week, a
stream of people came to the house. Though most people came for the
evening prayers, there were callers throughout the day who tended to
stand around chatting among themselves. So far from bringing
provisions, with a few exceptions, our visitors expected sustenance
to be provided for them in the form of tea or coffee and cakes. The
house became something of a week-long coffee morning/afternoon
during the Shiva week. Admittedly in wartime Middlesbrough
there wasn't much else to do.
The day after my mother's 36th birthday the
factory was destroyed by fire. I am indebted to Mr. Andrew Clarke, a
local historian for the following report:
"Disaster came on 22 March 1945 when the whole
factory went up in flames destroying not only the buildings but all
the sewing machines and stocks of garments. Concern had been
expressed at the time about the delay in fighting the fire and in
his report to the Council, who were responsible for the fire brigade
at the time, the chairman said that the outbreak was first
discovered at approximately 1 a.m. by Mr. Barr who occupied the
Sewage Farm House. He notified Mr. Norminton a council official, who
lived at the West End [about 100 yards from the factory] and in the
meantime Mr. Covell, the night watchman [Edgar's father] went into
town to summon the Fire Brigade. Shortly after 5.30 a.m. three
firemen and a trailer arrived on the scene, found they had no pump
and returned to the station for it. When finally the pump was
brought, it was found to be out of order. A call was put through for
the Redcar Fire Brigade, ten miles away, at 5.59 a.m. and on arrival
at 6.15.a.m. they were the first to have water through. The fire was
soon under control, but the whole of the factory was gutted and only
a shell remained, with rows and rows of charred skeleton frameworks
of the sewing machines.
Over the weekend, emergency plans were put into
operating to continue production by renting alternative premises.
Machines were installed in the Challoner Hall, New Road and in the
Priory Hall, Westgate. Employment for the girls was saved."
That these Keystone Cops antics of the local fire
fighters should have occurred in the war, when all emergency
services were supposed to be in a high state of readiness, beggars
belief and makes one wonder what would have happened had there been
an air raid or had lives been at risk. From a practical aspect it
was better for the factory to be totally gutted than partially
damaged, but had there been a semblance of efficiency some of the
machinery might have been saved. The first we knew of the fire was a
telephone call at about 8 a.m. No one had thought to telephone us in
Middlesbrough until then, though it has to be said that there was
not much that anyone could have done. Even getting to Guisborough
quickly would have been difficult.
There was great weeping and distress. My family
indulged themselves in one of their exercises in hysterics. "Oy
und veh, oy a broch ", screamed Oma "vass wertt von uns
bekimmen. Gott sei dank Papa lebt nicht mehr, ehr het vieder
gestorben". "0 calamity, what will become of us. Thank God Papa
didn't live to see this day, it would have killed him all over
again." Logic was never a strong point with members of my family,
particularly at times of emotional turmoil. It seemed that we were
facing financial ruin. All the years of effort appeared to have gone
up literally in smoke. Fortunately, the bulk of the cloth and other
materials was stored in the stockrooms in Fountain Street. Only as
much as was needed for immediate production was in the factory at
the time. Stock would have been difficult to replace. Hysteria acted
as a carthasis. Their temple had been destroyed. With the resilience
typical of my family, even without Opa, they set to work to rebuild
it. My mother's and Dora's organisational skills were fully tested.
New machinery was acquired, not without difficulty, but we did have
priority as we were on Government contracts at the time.
Jeanne's family, who owned the Bellow Machine
Company in Leeds, were to the fore in supplying replacement
machinery and equipment, and the business was soon operating again,
albeit in a somewhat reduced and chaotic state. Because the factory
and the offices were separate, the administration was not affected.
The factory was insured, but insurance did not provide for the
employees and their families who depended on the factory for their
income.
The new building was completed within a few
months. It was bigger and better than before, a more suitable T
shape than the old L shape, with a new upper floor, more adaptable,
with far better facilities. It did not take long for the phoenix to
rise from the ashes, but it did take a great deal of expenditure of
energy by those involved, and exacted a heavy price in emotion and
ill-health.
On 8 May 1945, eleven months after D-Day, 6 weeks
before my fourteenth birthday Germany surrendered; VE day: the War
in Europe, our War, was over. The church bells rang, the lights came
on again, happy crowds filled the streets everybody kissed everyone
else, rationing, bombing and hardships were all momentarily
forgotten. People threw parties in their homes and their street,
wives and mothers and children looked forward to the return of their
husbands sons and fathers. We had a school holiday, a whole day. My
great regret was that Opa had not lived to see this day. Knowing the
German incapacity to understand when they were beaten, we half
expected them to pull some cat out of the bag. The Ardennes
campaign, the Battle of the Bulge, had made us nervous, and our
fears seemed justified when the V-bomb campaign began. It took a
little time for the fact that Hitler was dead to sink in. No-one in
our house really believed it, and there was some justification for
their doubts in the escape of Martin Bormann and other leading Nazis
who turned up years later in South America. We wanted the evidence
of a dead body.
Euphoria was soon replaced by reality. There was
still a war in the Far East, though its effect on us was less
immediate. Sirens were now heard only when they sounded the end of
factory shifts. Though the blackout had ended we still had other
restrictions, including rationing, and considerable shortages. We
did not have any sons in the Forces, whose safe return we could now
expect, but there was still some family whose fate was unknown. Then
the horrific pictures from Belsen and other concentration camps
began to come through. There was a sense of disbelief The joy of
victory was abated by the pain of the tragedy, the scale of which
became more apparent day by day. It was horrifyingly unbelievable
and the actuality was worse than even the most distorted minds could
have dreamed up, and these acts had been perpetrated by what had
professed at one time to be a civilised country, the land of Goethe,
Heine, Bach and Beethoven, to name but a few. There was no pity or
regret in my family for the destruction of Dresden or the scourge
inflicted by the Russians on Germany. Charity was a scarce commodity
where the Germans were concerned.
None of us shared Winston Churchill's philosophy
of magnanimity in victory on seeing those photographs and newsreels,
and one wonders whether he would have made the same statement had he
known the full picture. I was now glad that Opa had not lived to see
this. There was a feeling of "there but for the grace of God..", and
a sense of guilt, not because you had escaped, but because you were
part of a world, a society, which had let this happen. In my
youthful innocence and optimism I thought that at least some good
would come of this disaster, that such things would not be allowed
to happen again, that there had to be an end to "Man's inhumanity to
man".
We now, more than ever, realised how grateful we
had to be for Opa's foresight. We had had, all things considered, an
"easy" war. The factory, busy on war work, was, until the fire,
doing well. Though taxation was high at 50% basic rate, there was
nothing to spend your money on, so a healthy capital reserve was
built up. Travel was difficult, so we stayed at home. There was a
spirit of unity and of common purpose, which, however, did not
inhibit miners and factory workers from striking for more pay or
better conditions. When I saw the pictures of the Belsen babies, the
sad piles of children's shoes and clothes, the horrific pictures of
children being sent to the gas chambers with their parents, if they
were lucky and not separated from them, I realised just how blessed
I had been. I had gone safely to school every day, and come home
safely every night: I had done my homework, listened to the radio,
read my books and comics, spent my pocket money on records and the
like, roamed freely and without fear on my bicycle, and paid little
attention to the outside world. Of course, I felt guilty, but above
all I was angry, angry at living in a world where civilised people
could commit, or if they did not themselves commit, abet or just
tolerate, such cruelty, such viciousness, and no one was exempt.
The immediate family had escaped unscathed except
for Oma's sister and niece who, caught in 1944 by the Germans in
Romania, perished at Auschwitz. Her son, Adolph Rockman, who for
perfectly understandable reasons, changed his name to Peter, was in
England throughout the war, married soon after and emigrated to
Israel. We did not then know what had happened to Dad's brother
Fritz in Belgium. There were also some cousins of Oma's in Poland
about whom there was no news.
We welcomed the Labour victory in 1945. Clement
Attlee became Prime Minister, and Ernest Bevin, to our surprise,
Foreign Secretary. It was clear even to a 14-year old schoolboy that
a new era had started, if for no other reason than the result of the
general election. As, I suppose, did most schools we held a mock
election, and to no one's surprise in that heavily Labour area, the
Labour candidate, my friend Tony Hearn, won. But there was also a
Communist candidate who was runner up. Russia was still our friend,
and communism was not yet a dirty word.
Though looked upon as, an indeed they were,
"capitalists" and entrepreneurs, my family had always had left wing
leanings. The youth clubs and Zionist organisations they had been
members of in Leipzig were all founded on Socialist principles. It
was these ideas which informed my mother's relationship with "her
girls". Max supported Labour. "A Socialist government" he said "is
always good for business. It puts money in the hands of the working
classes, who don't save or ruin themselves sending their children to
expensive schools. They have no long term ambitions and will spend
whatever they earn, thus creating more demand," with the corollary
that Max could sell more shirts, and increase the company's profits.
I am not sure in what category that assessment of the working
classes placed my family, who spent their money even before they had
earned it.
The war against Japan was also over within the
next two months, in August 1945. The end came suddenly and as
unexpectedly to us as doubtless to the Japanese themselves. The
morality of the dropping of the first atomic bombs has been the
subject of much argument since, but at the time few, I think, would
have felt any qualms. "Serve them right" was the reaction of most
people. The ramifications of the nuclear age into which we had been
pitched were not yet appreciated.
Now we could all look forward to a return to
normality. But what was normality? For most of my generation and
even more so my parents' and grandparents' generations, who had
survived two World Wars to say nothing of several local wars,
revolutions, and pogroms, normality was fear, violence, bombing,
destruction, rationing, blackout, shortages, fatherless families,
and worry, worry, worry. On the other hand it is strange, looking
back, how little the war appeared to affect our daily life, or
perhaps, more accurately, how quickly people adapted to wartime
conditions, so that these assumed the guise of normality. Life was
much easier where we were than for those in London, Manchester,
Liverpool and other large cities which had been heavily bombed, and
which carried their scars for decades after the war.
Reading the newspaper headlines from those days
now, it is interesting to see how they dealt with some of the major
disasters, such as Dunkirk, the loss of Singapore or Tobruk, Dieppe,
the sinking of our great battleships, the destruction of convoys,
and our cities, the V-rockets. It was not that they presented any of
these as a victory; it was more that they minimised the real damage
and held out hope of survival when there appeared to be none.
Conversely, they also treated good news rather cautiously, as if not
quite believing it. Life went on. You just accepted rationing,
blackout, shortages; "Don't you know there's a war on" became a
catch phrase. It was also an excuse for inaction. Robb Wilton, a
popular music hall comedian of the day, always started his act with
the words: "The day war broke out... " When the war was over he
started with "The day peace broke out", but it wasn't the same, and
never caught on.
Victory was celebrated by the Guisborough Shirt &
Underwear Co. Ltd., by a "Victory Dance, Whist Drive and Cabaret" on
Monday 4 March 1946 at the Coatham Hotel, Redcar, which was the
local place for such functions. The Dinner menu was traditional
English - Oxtail Soup, Roast Beef, Lamb or Pork, Brussels sprouts,
green peas, creamed or baked potatoes, followed by trifle or mocha
sponge and custard, coffee and biscuits. There was little provision
for vegetarians or indeed for those few of my family who only ate
kosher, but doubtless special provision was made for the Top Table.
The Dance Programme contained 16 items, quick-steps, fox-trots,
waltzes, military two-steps and medleys, with the odd Schottische
thrown in. The band was a real band with real live musicians
playing, with considerable accomplishment, real instruments,
saxophones, trombones, trumpets, violins, drums, without
amplification, all the popular hits of the day and a few "Old Time"
favourites thrown in. The girls made light of the shortage of men by
dancing together. Drink ran freely, but in the presence of the
management and womenfolk the men were circumspect in their intake.
They did not have to worry about driving as very few had cars and
there was no petrol for those who did, and coaches were laid on by
the company to and from the Ball. Max started the festivities with a
speech of thanks to the staff for their efforts, promising a
successful future for the company, outlining his ambitious plans,
and calling for even greater effort from the staff. He was a good
and charismatic speaker, and his words went down well, but no one
was in a mood to be critical.
