To understand better read previous sections
1948 Hurst Grange continued.
I settled into the routine of work and serious life at “Reading”. After I had been there a few weeks my mother came down to try and persuade me to come home. However I think the reverse happened and that she was persuaded that this was a good life, and that I was quite safe in the hands of this group. At Hurst grange there was an interesting group of people. Most were older than I. Many of the members at this time were refugees from Europe many from the kinder-transport the organization that rescued 10,000 Jewish children from Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia just before the war. Many of these children had been “ farmed” out to non-Jewish homes and on reaching an age of 17 or 18 decided that they wanted to immigrate to Israel and had thus joined the Hachshara. Many of these children have become important members of society, scientists, economists etc. Although various Jewish organizations were involved in the kinder –transport, many of the children were saved by individuals, such stockbroker Nicholas Winston who happened to visit Prague in 1938 and decided to help in rescuing Jewish children. I am always surprised by the number of “ kinder-transport” kids I meet as an adult. In retrospect I must have been the youngest kid to ever go on Hachshara up till then. Most of the others at the farm were in there 20’s, a few were married, and many had escaped from Europe, or had served in the forces during the war. I can imagine that I must have appeared like a little kid, or an unruly teenager. From photographs of that time I looked like a “ wild” unruly teenager, sporting masses of curly hair. In fact when I went to a reunion some fifty years later, not only did people not recognize me, they could not believe it was I, without all those curls.
Obviously being 17 years old, sex was important to me. Although I had been to Habonim summer camps, notorious for their sexual freedom, I was quite innocent and naïve. Standard of behavior were quite different in the 1940s and 50’s from that of today. One did not go to bed the very first time (at least I did not) you went out with a girl. Very shortly after arriving, I found a “Chavera” (girl friend) in Ruth F. The laundry, which was an annex to the main building, was a suitable place to “ schmooze”. It was isolated and very warm since the clothes were dried there. This was not a serious affair, since Ruth’s parents were immigrating to Australia and she was going with them, but it fulfilled a need for quite some time. Ruth was a small, not unattractive young girl (17-18 years old). However when I saw her mother, a small wrinkled old lady, I realized this is what Ruth would look like in a few years, thus she was not for me. In fact one can judge a lot by meeting the parents of a prospective bride. I have to remember to tell that to my grandchildren. Many years later I met my future wife’s mother, and I thought her a very beautiful woman. That must have played a role in my decision to ask Mimi to marry me. (That she accepted was quite a surprise!) Of course there were always visitors who came down for the weekend or a few weeks, and I think I must have been constantly in love (or thus it appeared to a 17 year old) with at least one of them.
Louis Williams had joined the group a little later. I always considered him a good friend, although we lost contact afterwards in Israel, since he did not go with the group to Gal –Ed. Mrs. Williams, his mother would always come down to the Hachshara with clean sheets, blankets or something else. She did not approve of our level of sanitation and insisted on making us more comfortable. Louis was very embarrassed by this, and he led the revolt against accepting anything from his mother (other than cigarettes). At that time he was a bit of a slob, as was I. Mrs. Williams was a kind-hearted woman, typical of the WIZO type. Mr. Williams was high up in the management of Marks and Spencer and was thus able to get us supplies quite cheaply. Louis ended up writing a history of the Israeli Army, and a translator of books from the Hebrew to the English. Somehow we have never met since the days on Hachshara. However I do remember the bitter fights over accepting gifts from WIZO or any other organization. We truly believed in being self-sufficient.
It was during this period that I must have come out of my “ shy” shell. I was quite outgoing, made friends with both sexes quite easily, although I was still put off by rough behavior or too much cursing. The language of the group was very crude. I think many of the group tried to out do the local “ peasants” and were constantly swearing. There were others who would talk of nothing else but sex and make sexual innuendos or risqué conversations. I really was an innocent kid. I had a reputation among the local farm workers for being very polite and was called “ parson Taylor” at work, because I did not drink, nor curse. I did occasionally go to the local pub, but at that time I did not feel at home in this atmosphere. This has most certainly changed, and today I do not mind having a beer with friends and students and when I visit England I enjoy going to a pub and having a “shepherds lunch”
Apart from work, I served on the Vaa’d Tarbut (cultural committee), which dealt with programs for holidays and our general Zionist-Socialist education. Our general meetings once a week, dealt with what we considered important issues such as how to fit into the “ general proletariat”, i.e. should we steal booze from a liquor factory where Frank worked like all the other workers, in order to conform to the proletariat or be “ Honest”. Our identification with the working classes was more important. We even decided whether a certain couple were suitable for each other and should get married. Can you imagine the fate of those couples that did get married despite our adverse advice? (This actually happened followed by divorce a few years later) The Vaad Tarbut (cultural committee) was also responsible for organizing the Friday night Oneg Shabbat, and the holidays, particularly Passover and Shavuot. We did not use the traditional Haggadah (Passover service book) but developed our own, focusing on spring, and agriculture, and bits of Solomon’s Song of Songs appropriate for spring. Shavuot was the harvest festival and here we performed dances and skits depicting agricultural life. I wonder whether any of the Haggadot and books has survived. I found this emphasis on spring and nature more appropriate that the Hagaddah we traditionally used. Friday night was a special night, a special meal, followed by zig’s a unique type of entertainment part slapstick and part comedy with comic innuendos. Apparently this type of entertainment had a profound influence on many actors who went through the movement such as Sasha Cohen (Borat).
I never doubted that I was doing the right thing, and was quite sure of my Zionist and to a less extent my socialist convictions. Some doubts did creep in as I got to know the English countryside, and saw a different aspect of people. Looking back I realize that I certainly had a “ chip” on my shoulder and was very suspicious of non-Jews. Although I did not have very much in common with the local farmers or farm workers, I found them decent and pleasant, and most certainly not Anti-Semitic, just curious. I also grew to love the English countryside. I would get on my bike, and ride off to Sonning and Henley on Thames at the weekend. I do not remember who my companions were, but we loved the small towns, the beauty of the summer, the river Thames and in general developed a romantic attitude to Southern England. The Henley regatta was a high point. This was a rowing race held every July. However there were often members of rowing teams practicing on the river. Of course I read a lot, (New Statesman, Tribune etc.) We had non-stop political and ideological discussions, and we had lots of lectures from Shlichim (emissaries from Israel), and from personalities like Shimon Appelbaum, a well know archeologist. He published books on archaeology in Judea during the Roman and Hellenistic period. We also studied Hebrew quite intensively, and many a weekend was spent at other Hachsharot, getting to know chaverim, forming bonds, and in general being educated (or was it brain washed?). Music was also an important part of life. We listened non-stop to Beethoven symphonies from our limited record collection, and we had an old piano that I used to practice on. This was still the days before television and stereo.
Many of the chaverim formed couples, and it was quite a job if one was on shmira (guard duty) waking people up at 5 or 6 a.m. for work, since very often they were not in their own rooms but somewhere else. After I time one got used to finding various people in each other’s rooms. However most of these couples later got married, and there was no ‘ switching”. Others kept on joining the group, different in some respects from the “ old timers”, a different generation, who grew up during the war, but had not fought in the war. I think a schism developed between those who would go to Kibbutz Beth Haemek, and on Aliya in 1950 and those who stayed behind and in actual fact formed a new garin (group). I was caught in between, having joined the “ older” group as a youngster, and was now the same age as those now joining the Hachshara and forming a new group. Thus I threw in my lot with the younger group joining in the 1950s.
One has to ask the question was the movement correct in recruiting some one as young as I was, and later when Hachsharat Noar (Noar means youth in Hebrew--a younger group) was established of recruiting a large number of 15-17 year olds. Would it not have been better to encourage us to go to university, or technical schools and to have other careers that could contribute to the building of the State, rather than only agriculture? With hindsight of course higher education and non-agricultural work (high tech) were to be the mainstay of the economy of Israel in the future but we could not predict this in the 1950s. The philosophy of the Zionist-socialist movement was to create an “ educated” peasantry, and to invert the typical Jewish demographic pyramid, with more workers and less businessmen, small shopkeepers and doctors at the base.
After about a year and a half, at Hurst grange, it was decided that I should not go on Aliya with the garin of the time (the group that went to Beth Haemek), but rather take a course in farm management at the West of Scotland College of Agriculture. Looking back it is difficult to know the motivation of the movement, certainly the idea was not mine, and I was disappointed that I would not be going on Aliya with my chevrah (this would have been to Beth Ha-emek). Perhaps it was decided that I was too young to go with the group, or I was not ready yet for Aliya. This “ not ready for Aliya” was a vague concept that was quite often discussed. I do not quite know what it meant, not ideologically ready? Although Hachshara was supposed to prepare us for kibbutz life in Israel, in fact, it really did not. It taught us the value of hard work, and how to work, and a person was valued by his work ethic, but it did not really prepare for the reality of life in the Middle East. Rather I think we all (or most of us) fell in love with rural England. We enjoyed our interactions with the local farmers who were pretty decent, the occasional visit to the pub, or tearoom, if we could afford it, and the bike rides at the weekends. Anyhow the movement decided that I should take this course, they chose Glasgow since I could live at home, and return to hachshara (not Reading but the David Eder Farm, nr Horsham) and eventually help run the farm, with whatever skills I picked up from the course. I spent about 5 months at college, studied everything from cattle breeding to farm economics, and in general had a good time. However I never changed my opinion about going to Israel and living on a kibbutz.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
First Days on Hachshara . 1948-49
FIRST DAYS ON HACHSHARA (The commune)
Hurst Grange. (1948-49).
The idea of going on Hachshara (the communal farm, or commune) was finalized at a concert of Beethoven’s 9th symphony performed by the Scottish Symphony Orchestra. Whether it was the words of Schiller (Ode to Joy, all men are brothers) or the stirring music that sealed my decision to go on Hachshara, I do not know. I turned to my Madrich (Group leader), Zvi Frisch, who was at the concert and said something like “ I am ready”. I was fed up with high school, with studying piano, and, what I then considered the decadent life of Glasgow Jewry (Jewish social clubs, Ballroom dancing, etc). I had had all these years of Zionism and socialist indoctrination, having joined the movement at around 10 years old, graduated to the Daily Worker, and was imbued with the idea of creating a ‘utopian” society. This could only be done through going on Aliya to Israel and living in a Kibbutz. I must have been quite a romantic, and decided that this was a superior way of life than going to university and following my contemporaries in study or business. Of course I had come under the influence of the movement and its leadership, which frowned on the idea of a university education. In fact if you read the minutes of the discussion in the movement at that time, you will find that this was a deliberate policy, to persuade young people not to go on for higher education even if it was possible. Thus at the age of 16.5, some time in 1948 I arrived at Hurst Grange, near Reading (at that time Twyford was the nearest train station and was just a village). I had come from a very middle class home, and had never done a days hard work in my life except for pulling out a few weeds around the rhubarb patch in the back garden. By this time the family had moved up to Holeburn Rd, in Newlands, one of the newer suburbs on the South side of Glasgow.
That I ended up in Hurst Grange was just chance, since the movement had three training farms, “ “Reading” as the one at Hurst Grange was called, David Eder Farm, near Horsham, and a third at Bosham, in Sussex. The idea was that this would be training for kibbutz life in Israel. Hachsharot (commune) as these were called were actually set up in Europe before the war, and continued in the UK after the war as a means of organizing the immigration into Palestine, which was under a quota by the British authorities. This of course was relaxed with the creation of Israel, but the concept of using these as a training farm, and possibly the future leadership of the movement was maintained. In fact it turned out to be a very idealistic kibbutz life compared to the real thing, and even idyllic. The premise was that we would work as farm laborers if such jobs were available, and pool our earnings. I don’t remember how much I earned but it all went into a common kitty. I am sure it was not very much, as farm laborers, particularly unskilled did not earn very much. In fact we often worked piecework, being paid by the row we hoed, or number of boxes of sprouts or lettuce or carrots we harvested. Although we believed in the equality of the sexes, for the most part it was the chaverot (girls) who did most of the cooking and the housework although occasionally one of the guys would be in charge of the kitchen. We lived on a very limited budget, and tried to be very self sufficient, i.e. not taking help from outside, although I am not sure how much Hechalutz (the parent organization. meaning the Pioneer) and the Zionist organization subsidized the training farms. In most cases we were about 20 young people of both sexes, mostly single with a few married couples, either both from the movement and in some cases one was there because the other belonged to the movement. Occasionally non-movement people did join for ideological reasons, mostly socialist ideas. I must emphasize that this was not like the communes of the 60’s, no drugs, hot tubs etc. It was a working commune and very self disciplined.
We ran the place very democratically, the instrument of decision being the asepha (meeting) where all of us would participate in discussion on what we considered “ important “ matters. These important matters revolved around social items: internal about personal relationship or about our relationship to the outside world. We were most definitely not religious, completely secular, and although we did celebrate some Jewish holidays (selectively) they were related to the season (agricultural) or given a nationalistic flavor.
We also elected a secretary (Mazkir), treasurer (Gizbar), and various committees particularly to attend to our cultural (tarbut) needs. Culture was very important, particularly music (classical) and intellectual discussions on philosophy, Zionist and socialist writers etc. I do not remember there being any interest in “ pop music” or pop culture, which might have been natural for a group of youngsters. I was on the Vaad ha Tarbut ( the cultural committee) However we did relax at times and sing old pub songs, and dirty ditties, this was the “ British” coming out in us. This was a specialty of certain chaverim ((comrades), mostly those from a Cockney background. We really were an odd mix of British and Jewish culture, and I suppose in retrospect we were an odd group of kids. We definitely were not the run of the mill teens or young people. We also very much believed in the idea of an educated peasantry, doing a lot of self study , reading on our own, learning Hebrew etc.
Hurst Grange was an old rambling run-down mansion that had seen better days. I think the house probably still exists, or it did a few years ago. I shared a room with another newcomer, Nat Ritsky from London. The chevrah (group) was made up of a few of us newcomers, mostly younger members of the movement, and older members in the early 20’s many of whom were born in Europe and had come to Britain as refugees. Although I knew how to cycle, I had never cycled long distances. This was essential if I wanted to get to work in one of the nearby (or not so nearby) farms. We had a collection of bikes left over from other members. I quickly learned the ropes and the next day (my first) was sent out to work with Nat and Leon, other new arrivals. I do not think any of us had ever been close to a cow before and here we were in front of a pile of cow dung, shoveling the stuff into a cart. It must have looked like a scene from a comic movie or Monty Python show. We all struggled getting the fork into the pile, and equally struggled lifting it up and moving it into the cart. It probably looked like an exercise in slow motion. Nat was a well-built, dark boy, about my own age, with dark curly hair. He came for the East End of London. Leon was a gangly, pimpled skinny young man, I think from NW London. Nat had been a tailor’s apprentice and Leon a hairdresser’s assistant. I do not think either had been very involved in the Habonim, certainly not as much as I had been. It was tough work. None of us had handled pitchforks and shovels before, and with great difficulty we extracted the material, which was all compressed together. Although we thought we were working hard, when it came time to go home, the farmer in no uncertain terms told us to go home and never come back. Although we were cheap labor, our productivity was such that he preferred local labor.
Thus my introduction to Hachshara, and farming, fired after one day on the job (This was not to be the last time it happened, but that belongs to another era. When I arrived in New York, I was penniless and had no profession other than what I had learned from working in the Kibbutz. There were no sheep in New York. I got a job in the fruit market as a book keeper through the Hebrew Immigrant Society, but was fired after one day because of illegible handwriting and not knowing how to keep books.). I do not know what happened to Nat or Leon, but both returned to London after a short time. During a visit to Kfar Hanassi in Israel in 2007 I met a distant relative, (Irene, wife of Nocky Shine (deceased)), and it turns out that she was instrumental in convincing her nephew many years ago to go on Hachshara. This was the same Nat Ritsky. Apparently he left the Hachshara after a few months and became a London taxi driver.
The next day after this incident I was sent to work in a local market garden. The owner of the farm was a Mr. Lobjoit, a nice gentleman farmer. He employed quite a number of the crazy “Jewish kids”. I must have worked quite well since I did not lose this job but did all sorts of jobs around the farm, including harvesting various kinds of greens, feeding the pigs (who always wanted to take a bite out of me), and milking the cows. This was before milking machines were common, and I also learned to drive a tractor, a Ferguson and Ford, which placed me in a good position later on in life. I actually used my tractor driving skills to help put me through college 15 years later! These were the type of tractors where you had to use all your strength to turn the starting handle which had a terrible kick back, not like today with automatic ignition.
I have pleasant memories of this time, and although the work was hard it did not bother me. I learned a lot about agriculture, and the exposure to different tasks came in handy later on. The worst job, as I remember, was picking Brussel sprouts covered with ice in a cold frosty morning. I remember one freezing morning picking these ice-cold sprouts with one of the girls Aliza, I think from London. She cursed like a trooper, and amazed all the local yokels with her vocabulary. I remember Mr. Lobjoit taking me aside and asking whether all our girls behaved like this! What could I say. Swearing like the yoklels had become a way of speaking for some people, or perhaps is was a rebellion against a NW London upbringing. I loved working in the cowshed, it was warm and cozy, even if it smelt a bit, and sitting next to the cow and milking by hand was quite a calming experience. I became a good cowman, and grew fond of the cows ,knew them by name, the usual, Daisy, Heather etc. and it helped that I had a love of animals (previously cats and dogs). As far as I can recall I worked at Lobjoit’s all through my period at Hurst Grange. Certainly my Hachshara was a success in learning how to work, and to some extent enjoying it. I also may have been one of the few to have a stable job. Apparently Lobjoit’s was a famous market gardener, there being a type of Cos lettuce called after the farm.
Next Chapter: Love on Hachshara
Hurst Grange. (1948-49).
The idea of going on Hachshara (the communal farm, or commune) was finalized at a concert of Beethoven’s 9th symphony performed by the Scottish Symphony Orchestra. Whether it was the words of Schiller (Ode to Joy, all men are brothers) or the stirring music that sealed my decision to go on Hachshara, I do not know. I turned to my Madrich (Group leader), Zvi Frisch, who was at the concert and said something like “ I am ready”. I was fed up with high school, with studying piano, and, what I then considered the decadent life of Glasgow Jewry (Jewish social clubs, Ballroom dancing, etc). I had had all these years of Zionism and socialist indoctrination, having joined the movement at around 10 years old, graduated to the Daily Worker, and was imbued with the idea of creating a ‘utopian” society. This could only be done through going on Aliya to Israel and living in a Kibbutz. I must have been quite a romantic, and decided that this was a superior way of life than going to university and following my contemporaries in study or business. Of course I had come under the influence of the movement and its leadership, which frowned on the idea of a university education. In fact if you read the minutes of the discussion in the movement at that time, you will find that this was a deliberate policy, to persuade young people not to go on for higher education even if it was possible. Thus at the age of 16.5, some time in 1948 I arrived at Hurst Grange, near Reading (at that time Twyford was the nearest train station and was just a village). I had come from a very middle class home, and had never done a days hard work in my life except for pulling out a few weeds around the rhubarb patch in the back garden. By this time the family had moved up to Holeburn Rd, in Newlands, one of the newer suburbs on the South side of Glasgow.
That I ended up in Hurst Grange was just chance, since the movement had three training farms, “ “Reading” as the one at Hurst Grange was called, David Eder Farm, near Horsham, and a third at Bosham, in Sussex. The idea was that this would be training for kibbutz life in Israel. Hachsharot (commune) as these were called were actually set up in Europe before the war, and continued in the UK after the war as a means of organizing the immigration into Palestine, which was under a quota by the British authorities. This of course was relaxed with the creation of Israel, but the concept of using these as a training farm, and possibly the future leadership of the movement was maintained. In fact it turned out to be a very idealistic kibbutz life compared to the real thing, and even idyllic. The premise was that we would work as farm laborers if such jobs were available, and pool our earnings. I don’t remember how much I earned but it all went into a common kitty. I am sure it was not very much, as farm laborers, particularly unskilled did not earn very much. In fact we often worked piecework, being paid by the row we hoed, or number of boxes of sprouts or lettuce or carrots we harvested. Although we believed in the equality of the sexes, for the most part it was the chaverot (girls) who did most of the cooking and the housework although occasionally one of the guys would be in charge of the kitchen. We lived on a very limited budget, and tried to be very self sufficient, i.e. not taking help from outside, although I am not sure how much Hechalutz (the parent organization. meaning the Pioneer) and the Zionist organization subsidized the training farms. In most cases we were about 20 young people of both sexes, mostly single with a few married couples, either both from the movement and in some cases one was there because the other belonged to the movement. Occasionally non-movement people did join for ideological reasons, mostly socialist ideas. I must emphasize that this was not like the communes of the 60’s, no drugs, hot tubs etc. It was a working commune and very self disciplined.
We ran the place very democratically, the instrument of decision being the asepha (meeting) where all of us would participate in discussion on what we considered “ important “ matters. These important matters revolved around social items: internal about personal relationship or about our relationship to the outside world. We were most definitely not religious, completely secular, and although we did celebrate some Jewish holidays (selectively) they were related to the season (agricultural) or given a nationalistic flavor.
We also elected a secretary (Mazkir), treasurer (Gizbar), and various committees particularly to attend to our cultural (tarbut) needs. Culture was very important, particularly music (classical) and intellectual discussions on philosophy, Zionist and socialist writers etc. I do not remember there being any interest in “ pop music” or pop culture, which might have been natural for a group of youngsters. I was on the Vaad ha Tarbut ( the cultural committee) However we did relax at times and sing old pub songs, and dirty ditties, this was the “ British” coming out in us. This was a specialty of certain chaverim ((comrades), mostly those from a Cockney background. We really were an odd mix of British and Jewish culture, and I suppose in retrospect we were an odd group of kids. We definitely were not the run of the mill teens or young people. We also very much believed in the idea of an educated peasantry, doing a lot of self study , reading on our own, learning Hebrew etc.
Hurst Grange was an old rambling run-down mansion that had seen better days. I think the house probably still exists, or it did a few years ago. I shared a room with another newcomer, Nat Ritsky from London. The chevrah (group) was made up of a few of us newcomers, mostly younger members of the movement, and older members in the early 20’s many of whom were born in Europe and had come to Britain as refugees. Although I knew how to cycle, I had never cycled long distances. This was essential if I wanted to get to work in one of the nearby (or not so nearby) farms. We had a collection of bikes left over from other members. I quickly learned the ropes and the next day (my first) was sent out to work with Nat and Leon, other new arrivals. I do not think any of us had ever been close to a cow before and here we were in front of a pile of cow dung, shoveling the stuff into a cart. It must have looked like a scene from a comic movie or Monty Python show. We all struggled getting the fork into the pile, and equally struggled lifting it up and moving it into the cart. It probably looked like an exercise in slow motion. Nat was a well-built, dark boy, about my own age, with dark curly hair. He came for the East End of London. Leon was a gangly, pimpled skinny young man, I think from NW London. Nat had been a tailor’s apprentice and Leon a hairdresser’s assistant. I do not think either had been very involved in the Habonim, certainly not as much as I had been. It was tough work. None of us had handled pitchforks and shovels before, and with great difficulty we extracted the material, which was all compressed together. Although we thought we were working hard, when it came time to go home, the farmer in no uncertain terms told us to go home and never come back. Although we were cheap labor, our productivity was such that he preferred local labor.
Thus my introduction to Hachshara, and farming, fired after one day on the job (This was not to be the last time it happened, but that belongs to another era. When I arrived in New York, I was penniless and had no profession other than what I had learned from working in the Kibbutz. There were no sheep in New York. I got a job in the fruit market as a book keeper through the Hebrew Immigrant Society, but was fired after one day because of illegible handwriting and not knowing how to keep books.). I do not know what happened to Nat or Leon, but both returned to London after a short time. During a visit to Kfar Hanassi in Israel in 2007 I met a distant relative, (Irene, wife of Nocky Shine (deceased)), and it turns out that she was instrumental in convincing her nephew many years ago to go on Hachshara. This was the same Nat Ritsky. Apparently he left the Hachshara after a few months and became a London taxi driver.
The next day after this incident I was sent to work in a local market garden. The owner of the farm was a Mr. Lobjoit, a nice gentleman farmer. He employed quite a number of the crazy “Jewish kids”. I must have worked quite well since I did not lose this job but did all sorts of jobs around the farm, including harvesting various kinds of greens, feeding the pigs (who always wanted to take a bite out of me), and milking the cows. This was before milking machines were common, and I also learned to drive a tractor, a Ferguson and Ford, which placed me in a good position later on in life. I actually used my tractor driving skills to help put me through college 15 years later! These were the type of tractors where you had to use all your strength to turn the starting handle which had a terrible kick back, not like today with automatic ignition.
I have pleasant memories of this time, and although the work was hard it did not bother me. I learned a lot about agriculture, and the exposure to different tasks came in handy later on. The worst job, as I remember, was picking Brussel sprouts covered with ice in a cold frosty morning. I remember one freezing morning picking these ice-cold sprouts with one of the girls Aliza, I think from London. She cursed like a trooper, and amazed all the local yokels with her vocabulary. I remember Mr. Lobjoit taking me aside and asking whether all our girls behaved like this! What could I say. Swearing like the yoklels had become a way of speaking for some people, or perhaps is was a rebellion against a NW London upbringing. I loved working in the cowshed, it was warm and cozy, even if it smelt a bit, and sitting next to the cow and milking by hand was quite a calming experience. I became a good cowman, and grew fond of the cows ,knew them by name, the usual, Daisy, Heather etc. and it helped that I had a love of animals (previously cats and dogs). As far as I can recall I worked at Lobjoit’s all through my period at Hurst Grange. Certainly my Hachshara was a success in learning how to work, and to some extent enjoying it. I also may have been one of the few to have a stable job. Apparently Lobjoit’s was a famous market gardener, there being a type of Cos lettuce called after the farm.
Next Chapter: Love on Hachshara
Friday, July 30, 2010
Habonim and growing up Jewish
Childhood, Youth and Zionism.
I must have joined Habonim when I was about 10 years old. That would have been 1941. The group was called Gedud Degania after the first kibbutz established in Palestine. All the groups had names of kibbutzim in what was at that time Palestine, and gedud means battalion, or some such thing. This was the name given to the youngest groups; the teen groups were called plugot. Interesting how these became military terms in the Israeli army, or was it the other way around? Those may have been biblical military terms.
We learned the Habonim promise “I promise as a Boneh to uphold the good name of the Jewish people … “ and built bricks out of cardboard and glue to represent the building bricks of the pioneers. This ceremony, equivalent to a scout’s ceremony was known as the “ hakdasha”, basically “ dedication”. This was a pioneer youth movement, similar to the boy scouts except with Zionism thrown in. We learned songs all about building the new “ homeland”, dances such as the Hora, mayim-mayim (water-water), a precious substance in that part of the world, some scouting, knot making, camping skills etc. We met as a group of kids, perhaps 15 of us every Sunday afternoon at Queen’s Park Synagogue. I remember this as a beautiful building, surrounded by a wooded garden. The first time I went there, by mistake I walked into the church next door, and sat down with other kids learning about Jesus. I quickly realized that something was wrong, and approached the woman teaching and asked whether this was Habonim. She quickly directed me to the synagogue. I do not remember whom our madrichim (leaders) were (Sylvia Poli ? Robert Weber ?) nor do I remember many of the other kids. I actually have kept up with both of the above, meeting Robert occasionally in New York and Sylvia in Israel. I think at that time the group was led by Eva Ross my Hebrew teacher. but no one seems to remember her. I was quiet and a little introverted compared to most of the other kids. I do remember others in the group including, Agnes Benjamin, Basil Rifkind. Victor Kurtzman (whom I believe became a Chabad Rabbi in S. California), and Judith Wolfsohn. Much later, when I was about 13-14 I hung out with Tommy Berman and Basil Rifkind . I always appreciated Tommy, thought him very clever, and admired his superb self built electric train set. I would occasionally go to his house, to the Millers, for “ tea” and spend time playing with this wonderful set. Basil was less “ cultured”, more out going, and always a little rough on the outside. He did become a famous cardiologist later on and head of the US-NIH heart section. He retired as chief of the NHLBI's lipid metabolism and atherosclerosis branch in 2000. He died of Parkinson’s in 2008. I have since found out that he did go on Aliya as a physician, but one of his children had leukemia, and the best treatment at that time was in the USA. Thus he came to the US because of the son, and stayed on at the NIH. By chance I met one of his son’s recently on a trip to Bethesda. A small world.
Thus although I went to Hutcheson’s Grammar school, my social life evolved around Habonim and also some of the same kids who attended cheder either at Queens Park or Niddrie Rd Shul. I really had no good friends from school. Only later on did I become friendly with Donald Dickson, went to his house for dinner occasionally, and met his family. I think I was a curiosity to his family, being “foreign”. Thus I was more interested in Jewish /Zionist affairs than what was going on around me in Scotland or at school. Later on I also occasionally attended Bnei Akiva. The meetings were held right across the street from our house on Dixon Avenue. Most of those attending were not native Glaswegians, but refugees from Europe. They seemed to me and particularly to my parents and other members of the community as “ strange” people, rather uppity. I have learned since then that this was a case of us the Oest Yidin and them the German Yidin, with the same suspicions and attitudes that occurred in all Jewish communities. We were suspicious of each other. Many of them must have been saved in the “ kinder transport”. Tommy, my friend referred to above was one of the kinder transport kids from Czechoslovakia. Also there was much more religion in B’nei Akiva, which at specific times appealed to me, and other times turned me off. In general we talked about the girls of Bnei Akiva being prettier than those in Habonim. I discussed this many years later with Julian Davidson, a fellow Glaswegian, whom I met as a faculty member at Stanford University. Julian was a regular at the B’nei Akiva and also Bachad. My attitude to religion was one of confusion. Sometimes I went to Shul on Friday nights and Shabbat morning, other times I stayed away. At home we were “ traditional”, and yet I hung up a stocking at Xmas and expected presents until about the age of 10. I did go to Cheder regularly from the age of 10, and had a Bar mitzvah in Queens Park Shul. The only teacher’s I remember were a Mr. Zwebner, and Rabbi Singer. I do not recall whether they were from Queens Park or Niddrie Road or who taught me for my bar mitzvah.
Tommy, Basil and I would occasionally go out together and roam the Queens Park area. My favorite haunt was Victoria Rd. equivalent then to today’s malls. This was a broad street, with shops on sides, ice cream café’s and bakeries leading up to the main entrance of Queens Park. There was an excellent ice cream shop called the Bluebird Cafe (I think ) at the entrance to the park near Shawlands. This park played an important role in my young life. When I was much younger (5-6 perhaps) I would sail my boat in Queen’s park pond, and go fishing for minnows (Guppies). My father would take me to feed the ducks and swans of which there were many different varieties. This I remember doing with my father on Sunday mornings. There was often a concert in the park on Sunday afternoons, or sometimes in the long summer evenings. I remember going with my sisters Beatrice and Adelaide to the park and listening to some operatic arias sung by a rather large soprano, and giggling all the way through. The park had everything, swings, rose gardens, flower beds, green houses. It was a breath of the country in the midst of the city. The park was opened in 1857 and was designed by the world renowned Sir Joseph Paxton, also responsible for noted public parks in London, Liverpool, Birkenhead and the grounds of the Spa Buildings at Scarborough. The park was dedicated to the memory of Mary, Queen of Scots and not Queen Victoria, a common misconception given the proximity to Victoria Road and that the park was created during her reign. (Wikepedia). In fact the park is on or near the site of the battle of Langside which took place in 1568 between the forces loyal to Mary Queen of Scots and her Protestant half brother the Earl of Moray who was fighting on behalf of James VI, Mary’s infant son. The park is huge, covering some 148 acres. It has many entrances, flower gardens, and great walking trails.
To get back to my childhood: I went through a very nationalist stage during my early teens. This was a result of news coming out of Europe on the massacre of European Jewry and the activities of the British in trying to stop immigration into Palestine. This was the period of the Jewish underground activity against the British right after the end of WWII. I was thus a mixed up kid, tending to the violent side of the Zionist movement and also at the same time to the socialist side, reading the Daily Worker (which incidentally was also supportive at that time the Jewish struggle against the British) and the right wing revisionist (Zionist) newspaper. Both papers claimed that Britain was an imperialist power, attempting to destroy the nascent Jewish State. There is no doubt that this was the aim of Ernest Bevin the foreign minister of the time. His Anti-Semitism was quite open. To an impressionable youth, the betrayal by the Labor party was felt very keenly, and possibly led to my desire to get out of Britain and immigrate myself to Israel. Thus by 1947 I was ready to go on Hachshara, a communal farm run by Habonim, which was supposed to prepare one for Israel. I have written elsewhere about my time on Hachshara, a happy time in my life. Lots of intellectual activities, music, discussions etc. While in England I fell in love with the English countryside, as well as a few members of the opposite sex. Some of this will be described in the next chapter.
Another event that had a profound influence on me was an attack on my father’s shop. This must have been in 1947 after the hanging of two British solders by the Irgun. The shop windows were smashed. I don’t remember if anything was written on the shop windows. Since there was nothing on the outside to indicate that this shop was owned by a Jew, this must have been done by some local ruffians who knew my father. This reminded me of Nazi Germany and obviously had an effect on an impressionable teen-ager. There were riots in Glasgow, Liverpool and elsewhere at this time. (I thought for a time that this might be my imagination, but I found descriptions of the riots on the internet).
My other early interest was music, and my then aim was to be a pianist. I must have started piano lessons at the age of 6, from a Mr. Wilson. He was the organist at a local church somewhere in the Maryhill area. He appeared to me to be elderly, but as a child everyone probably did. At some point he decided he could not teach me any more, so I started studying at the Orr School of Music, my teacher being a Mrs. Sweeney. She was a very capable teacher, and the school kept to the standards set by the London Royal Academy of Music, with annual exams. I think I progressed up to grade V. The exams consisted of playing a few pieces of music before a committee and answering some questions on theory. This “ academy” was also on Dixon Avenue, so that my life revolved around this area Again as in school I began to lose interest in this about the age of 16. However I did give some recitals as part of programs arranged either through the Zionist movement, cheder or Habonim. I do remember one such concert in which I accompanied Agnes Benjamin in some Hebrew songs. She had a very nice voice. I also played some waltzes by Chopin. I cannot remember where these concerts were held. For a short period I also taught the piano to a few pupils at home. This was after dropping out of school when I had more time and needed to earn some money.
I seemed to have wandered off again. However by the age of 16, not doing well at school, not being interested in my father’s store (I did work there for a few months after leaving school, see next blog). I was uncomfortable at home, being very snobbish about the lack of education and culture in the home that I decided the best option for me was to go on Hachshara (commune). I just lazed around and did not really want to do any work or find a job after quitting school. I must have been a horrible teen- ager, causing no end of problems to my parents and sisters. As I discuss later, I was quite happy on hachshara. I seemed to have lost most of my inhibitions, was quite popular, and had quite an active sex life (by the standard of the day). I did not mind the hard work (farming), the cycling in the cold to work, or studying Hebrew in the evenings. I hope I can describe some humorous episodes in a subsequent blog.
I must have joined Habonim when I was about 10 years old. That would have been 1941. The group was called Gedud Degania after the first kibbutz established in Palestine. All the groups had names of kibbutzim in what was at that time Palestine, and gedud means battalion, or some such thing. This was the name given to the youngest groups; the teen groups were called plugot. Interesting how these became military terms in the Israeli army, or was it the other way around? Those may have been biblical military terms.
We learned the Habonim promise “I promise as a Boneh to uphold the good name of the Jewish people … “ and built bricks out of cardboard and glue to represent the building bricks of the pioneers. This ceremony, equivalent to a scout’s ceremony was known as the “ hakdasha”, basically “ dedication”. This was a pioneer youth movement, similar to the boy scouts except with Zionism thrown in. We learned songs all about building the new “ homeland”, dances such as the Hora, mayim-mayim (water-water), a precious substance in that part of the world, some scouting, knot making, camping skills etc. We met as a group of kids, perhaps 15 of us every Sunday afternoon at Queen’s Park Synagogue. I remember this as a beautiful building, surrounded by a wooded garden. The first time I went there, by mistake I walked into the church next door, and sat down with other kids learning about Jesus. I quickly realized that something was wrong, and approached the woman teaching and asked whether this was Habonim. She quickly directed me to the synagogue. I do not remember whom our madrichim (leaders) were (Sylvia Poli ? Robert Weber ?) nor do I remember many of the other kids. I actually have kept up with both of the above, meeting Robert occasionally in New York and Sylvia in Israel. I think at that time the group was led by Eva Ross my Hebrew teacher. but no one seems to remember her. I was quiet and a little introverted compared to most of the other kids. I do remember others in the group including, Agnes Benjamin, Basil Rifkind. Victor Kurtzman (whom I believe became a Chabad Rabbi in S. California), and Judith Wolfsohn. Much later, when I was about 13-14 I hung out with Tommy Berman and Basil Rifkind . I always appreciated Tommy, thought him very clever, and admired his superb self built electric train set. I would occasionally go to his house, to the Millers, for “ tea” and spend time playing with this wonderful set. Basil was less “ cultured”, more out going, and always a little rough on the outside. He did become a famous cardiologist later on and head of the US-NIH heart section. He retired as chief of the NHLBI's lipid metabolism and atherosclerosis branch in 2000. He died of Parkinson’s in 2008. I have since found out that he did go on Aliya as a physician, but one of his children had leukemia, and the best treatment at that time was in the USA. Thus he came to the US because of the son, and stayed on at the NIH. By chance I met one of his son’s recently on a trip to Bethesda. A small world.
Thus although I went to Hutcheson’s Grammar school, my social life evolved around Habonim and also some of the same kids who attended cheder either at Queens Park or Niddrie Rd Shul. I really had no good friends from school. Only later on did I become friendly with Donald Dickson, went to his house for dinner occasionally, and met his family. I think I was a curiosity to his family, being “foreign”. Thus I was more interested in Jewish /Zionist affairs than what was going on around me in Scotland or at school. Later on I also occasionally attended Bnei Akiva. The meetings were held right across the street from our house on Dixon Avenue. Most of those attending were not native Glaswegians, but refugees from Europe. They seemed to me and particularly to my parents and other members of the community as “ strange” people, rather uppity. I have learned since then that this was a case of us the Oest Yidin and them the German Yidin, with the same suspicions and attitudes that occurred in all Jewish communities. We were suspicious of each other. Many of them must have been saved in the “ kinder transport”. Tommy, my friend referred to above was one of the kinder transport kids from Czechoslovakia. Also there was much more religion in B’nei Akiva, which at specific times appealed to me, and other times turned me off. In general we talked about the girls of Bnei Akiva being prettier than those in Habonim. I discussed this many years later with Julian Davidson, a fellow Glaswegian, whom I met as a faculty member at Stanford University. Julian was a regular at the B’nei Akiva and also Bachad. My attitude to religion was one of confusion. Sometimes I went to Shul on Friday nights and Shabbat morning, other times I stayed away. At home we were “ traditional”, and yet I hung up a stocking at Xmas and expected presents until about the age of 10. I did go to Cheder regularly from the age of 10, and had a Bar mitzvah in Queens Park Shul. The only teacher’s I remember were a Mr. Zwebner, and Rabbi Singer. I do not recall whether they were from Queens Park or Niddrie Road or who taught me for my bar mitzvah.
Tommy, Basil and I would occasionally go out together and roam the Queens Park area. My favorite haunt was Victoria Rd. equivalent then to today’s malls. This was a broad street, with shops on sides, ice cream café’s and bakeries leading up to the main entrance of Queens Park. There was an excellent ice cream shop called the Bluebird Cafe (I think ) at the entrance to the park near Shawlands. This park played an important role in my young life. When I was much younger (5-6 perhaps) I would sail my boat in Queen’s park pond, and go fishing for minnows (Guppies). My father would take me to feed the ducks and swans of which there were many different varieties. This I remember doing with my father on Sunday mornings. There was often a concert in the park on Sunday afternoons, or sometimes in the long summer evenings. I remember going with my sisters Beatrice and Adelaide to the park and listening to some operatic arias sung by a rather large soprano, and giggling all the way through. The park had everything, swings, rose gardens, flower beds, green houses. It was a breath of the country in the midst of the city. The park was opened in 1857 and was designed by the world renowned Sir Joseph Paxton, also responsible for noted public parks in London, Liverpool, Birkenhead and the grounds of the Spa Buildings at Scarborough. The park was dedicated to the memory of Mary, Queen of Scots and not Queen Victoria, a common misconception given the proximity to Victoria Road and that the park was created during her reign. (Wikepedia). In fact the park is on or near the site of the battle of Langside which took place in 1568 between the forces loyal to Mary Queen of Scots and her Protestant half brother the Earl of Moray who was fighting on behalf of James VI, Mary’s infant son. The park is huge, covering some 148 acres. It has many entrances, flower gardens, and great walking trails.
To get back to my childhood: I went through a very nationalist stage during my early teens. This was a result of news coming out of Europe on the massacre of European Jewry and the activities of the British in trying to stop immigration into Palestine. This was the period of the Jewish underground activity against the British right after the end of WWII. I was thus a mixed up kid, tending to the violent side of the Zionist movement and also at the same time to the socialist side, reading the Daily Worker (which incidentally was also supportive at that time the Jewish struggle against the British) and the right wing revisionist (Zionist) newspaper. Both papers claimed that Britain was an imperialist power, attempting to destroy the nascent Jewish State. There is no doubt that this was the aim of Ernest Bevin the foreign minister of the time. His Anti-Semitism was quite open. To an impressionable youth, the betrayal by the Labor party was felt very keenly, and possibly led to my desire to get out of Britain and immigrate myself to Israel. Thus by 1947 I was ready to go on Hachshara, a communal farm run by Habonim, which was supposed to prepare one for Israel. I have written elsewhere about my time on Hachshara, a happy time in my life. Lots of intellectual activities, music, discussions etc. While in England I fell in love with the English countryside, as well as a few members of the opposite sex. Some of this will be described in the next chapter.
Another event that had a profound influence on me was an attack on my father’s shop. This must have been in 1947 after the hanging of two British solders by the Irgun. The shop windows were smashed. I don’t remember if anything was written on the shop windows. Since there was nothing on the outside to indicate that this shop was owned by a Jew, this must have been done by some local ruffians who knew my father. This reminded me of Nazi Germany and obviously had an effect on an impressionable teen-ager. There were riots in Glasgow, Liverpool and elsewhere at this time. (I thought for a time that this might be my imagination, but I found descriptions of the riots on the internet).
My other early interest was music, and my then aim was to be a pianist. I must have started piano lessons at the age of 6, from a Mr. Wilson. He was the organist at a local church somewhere in the Maryhill area. He appeared to me to be elderly, but as a child everyone probably did. At some point he decided he could not teach me any more, so I started studying at the Orr School of Music, my teacher being a Mrs. Sweeney. She was a very capable teacher, and the school kept to the standards set by the London Royal Academy of Music, with annual exams. I think I progressed up to grade V. The exams consisted of playing a few pieces of music before a committee and answering some questions on theory. This “ academy” was also on Dixon Avenue, so that my life revolved around this area Again as in school I began to lose interest in this about the age of 16. However I did give some recitals as part of programs arranged either through the Zionist movement, cheder or Habonim. I do remember one such concert in which I accompanied Agnes Benjamin in some Hebrew songs. She had a very nice voice. I also played some waltzes by Chopin. I cannot remember where these concerts were held. For a short period I also taught the piano to a few pupils at home. This was after dropping out of school when I had more time and needed to earn some money.
I seemed to have wandered off again. However by the age of 16, not doing well at school, not being interested in my father’s store (I did work there for a few months after leaving school, see next blog). I was uncomfortable at home, being very snobbish about the lack of education and culture in the home that I decided the best option for me was to go on Hachshara (commune). I just lazed around and did not really want to do any work or find a job after quitting school. I must have been a horrible teen- ager, causing no end of problems to my parents and sisters. As I discuss later, I was quite happy on hachshara. I seemed to have lost most of my inhibitions, was quite popular, and had quite an active sex life (by the standard of the day). I did not mind the hard work (farming), the cycling in the cold to work, or studying Hebrew in the evenings. I hope I can describe some humorous episodes in a subsequent blog.
The furniture store
The family had furniture stores (used and new) as far back as I can remember. My grandfather Mitchell had a large store on Paisley Road West. I remember going there as a child quite often. It was next to a park (Kinning Park?), and not far from a cinema, called the Lorne. Apparently this was made into a Bingo Hall in 1976, and then demolished in 1986. This area is famous for being the home of the Rangers football team, until this day a place of strong anti-Catholic feeling. My grandmother’s house was a few blocks from the store, on Paisley Road West. Since this was further west (in the direction of Paisley) it was a nicer neighborhood, and flats were spacious. However it still was what was called a tenement. My grandparents always had a maid in these days to do the house keeping and the serving of meals. My Uncle David worked in the store, as did my Aunt Betty. This was good training for their futures, since both ended up later on opening their own business. The local school in the neighborhood was the scene of many clashes between Protestant kids and Catholics kids on Orange day, a day celebrating the Protestant victory over the Catholics in Ireland at the battle of the Boyne in 1690. The organization was called the Orange Lodge, after the Prince of Orange, who became William III of a united Britain. It was a Protestant organization, and reflected the anti-Catholicism of its day. This religious feeling was tied into the rivalry between the football teams the Rangers versus the Celtics, which played at nearby Ibrox Park. Being Jewish, I was not caught up in this rivalry, and stood aside; I suppose not knowing where I belonged in this “religious” struggle. I don’t think it truly was religious, but more a matter of native Scots (Protestants) versus Irish immigrants (the Catholics)
My father’s first store was in a run-down, very slummy part of the city, in Houston St. We lived close by. Unfortunately I do not remember the address. I know it was near Shields Road, since I attended school in Scotland St Primary school, now a museum. This was because the school was built by the famous architect Rennie Mackintosh. The area was very run down, full of drunks, and grey/black tenement houses. This was as much as we could afford, since my parents lost everything including their home during the depression of the 1930’s. This shop in Houston St was in existence until some time during the war, when my father was conscripted, and instead of serving in the army, worked in the shipyards (John Brown) as a riveter. This was one of the largest ship building yards in Clydebank. I think he was exempted from the army because he had three small children. It was during this time that he came under the influence of the communist party. All I remember was the name Fraser, which cropped up in conversation and I assume that this was Hamish Fraser who was the communist organizer on the docks at this time. This introduced me to the “ Daily Worker” the communist newspaper, which reinforced my own ideas of the world.
After being released from Service, which I assume was either at the end or towards the end of the war, my father opened a store in Maryhill Rd. Again this was a poor, working class neighborhood. The shop was in a good location not far from a central crossroad, St George’s Cross, and close to the subway station on the Great Western Road. Today it is difficult to recognize the area ,since there are expressways overhead, and St George’s cross has disappeared. I used to walk from school through the city center to reach the shop. After a few years a larger shop was opened in the same area, while eventually the older store was either sold or rented to my uncle David Mitchell.
The store always smelt musty and of furniture polish. Mrs. Stuart was the “ French polisher”, the person who stripped of the old paint and varnished and polished the old furniture until it looked new. French Polishing is a technique in which many layers of shellac and other finishing compounds, including linseed oil are applied to the furniture. It is a very labor-intensive job. Mrs. Stuart was a very hearty, jovial woman, very Scottish, and very upset when her daughter married an Englishman. The furniture was a mix of “ junk” and antiques, and old solid Victoriana. I took a dislike to all the smelly old stuff, and to the downtrodden customers. However it also was a treasure trove. I would find interesting books and lots of sheet music and albums, many of which I still retain until this day. There were probably lots of valuable antiques that were never recognized as such. These goods were superior to what I find in antique shops here in Indiana.
The customers were a cross section of the neighbourhood. There were those visiting from the Highlands, who seemed more polite and better dressed than the locals. Occasionally there were customers from Norway. In particular I remember one woman who came to the store quite often, a very attractive well dressed woman. She was buying items and shipping them to Norway. There were those who came in to hang out, as you might say, lonely people looking for conversation and those who were stoned and drunk on “ red biddy” which I believe was methylated alcohol mixed with red wine. In particular I remember one old woman who always looked bedraggled and smelt terribly of a mixture of dirt, sweat and booze. She would come into the store and hang around making it difficult for other customers to come in. She really was looking for a hand out. To buy more booze. I think a lot of people would sell their furniture in order to get booze money or “ fag” money. This was the days before hard drugs or pot. I hate to think what it must be like today !
In the back of the store there was a small kitchen, or space for making tea with a small stove, and a small dirty toilet. There always seemed to be people “hanging” around this area. In fact I think they were mostly plain clothes policemen, since there was a lot of petty crime in the area. They would come in to chat and have a cup of tea. They were big hefty men, and I suppose my father (and I ) must have looked pretty small next to them. They were decent guys doing a job.
When I was about 16 and began to be uninterested in school studies I often worked in the shop. I would open the store in the morning, wash the windows with a pole attachment, dust the furniture and wait on customers. I found the process quite boring, and would saunter off down Maryhill road looking at other stores, or go in and talk to the women who worked in the R.S.McColl sweet store a few doors down. During the war years I would spend my sweet rationing coupons in this store. I probably never ate so many sweets in my entire life as I did during this period. The result was in later life, rotting teeth. The women who ran the store “ spoiled” me and were always giving me Rowntree gums or Mackintosh Quality Street. A few years later when I returned to Glasgow for a stint at college I would still go in to the store and say hello and get my fill of sweets. A combination of sweets and British dentistry meant that to this day I have constant oral problems. Next door there was a butcher store, which always smelt of blood and meat. This was the days before refrigeration and the meat would hang as carcasses at the back of the store. The specialty of the store was “ black pudding”. A sausage made out of blood. To this day I have never tried to eat it, I must have been disgusted by it, possibly because I was also trying to keep Kosher. I suppose they must have had blocks of ice delivered to keep the meat cool.
The store remained in business until my father’s death. I think he wanted to hand it over to John Duncan, my brother in law. A second store was opened next door, a betting store (Bookie). Betting on Greyhound dogs and horse racing had become legal and was a thriving business.
For many years I have avoided going into a secondhand furniture store. It brought back too many bad memories. In retrospect selling second hand furniture is no worse than any other retail business, and with the large number of garage sales in the US, people are always looking for bargains. I think that the socialist education I received in the movement (Habonim) instilled in me a sort of disgust of business. It was associated with Diaspora Jewry (as opposed to the educated peasant of the youth movement) and bourgeois life, the antithesis of what we (or I) was going to become in Israel.
My father’s first store was in a run-down, very slummy part of the city, in Houston St. We lived close by. Unfortunately I do not remember the address. I know it was near Shields Road, since I attended school in Scotland St Primary school, now a museum. This was because the school was built by the famous architect Rennie Mackintosh. The area was very run down, full of drunks, and grey/black tenement houses. This was as much as we could afford, since my parents lost everything including their home during the depression of the 1930’s. This shop in Houston St was in existence until some time during the war, when my father was conscripted, and instead of serving in the army, worked in the shipyards (John Brown) as a riveter. This was one of the largest ship building yards in Clydebank. I think he was exempted from the army because he had three small children. It was during this time that he came under the influence of the communist party. All I remember was the name Fraser, which cropped up in conversation and I assume that this was Hamish Fraser who was the communist organizer on the docks at this time. This introduced me to the “ Daily Worker” the communist newspaper, which reinforced my own ideas of the world.
After being released from Service, which I assume was either at the end or towards the end of the war, my father opened a store in Maryhill Rd. Again this was a poor, working class neighborhood. The shop was in a good location not far from a central crossroad, St George’s Cross, and close to the subway station on the Great Western Road. Today it is difficult to recognize the area ,since there are expressways overhead, and St George’s cross has disappeared. I used to walk from school through the city center to reach the shop. After a few years a larger shop was opened in the same area, while eventually the older store was either sold or rented to my uncle David Mitchell.
The store always smelt musty and of furniture polish. Mrs. Stuart was the “ French polisher”, the person who stripped of the old paint and varnished and polished the old furniture until it looked new. French Polishing is a technique in which many layers of shellac and other finishing compounds, including linseed oil are applied to the furniture. It is a very labor-intensive job. Mrs. Stuart was a very hearty, jovial woman, very Scottish, and very upset when her daughter married an Englishman. The furniture was a mix of “ junk” and antiques, and old solid Victoriana. I took a dislike to all the smelly old stuff, and to the downtrodden customers. However it also was a treasure trove. I would find interesting books and lots of sheet music and albums, many of which I still retain until this day. There were probably lots of valuable antiques that were never recognized as such. These goods were superior to what I find in antique shops here in Indiana.
The customers were a cross section of the neighbourhood. There were those visiting from the Highlands, who seemed more polite and better dressed than the locals. Occasionally there were customers from Norway. In particular I remember one woman who came to the store quite often, a very attractive well dressed woman. She was buying items and shipping them to Norway. There were those who came in to hang out, as you might say, lonely people looking for conversation and those who were stoned and drunk on “ red biddy” which I believe was methylated alcohol mixed with red wine. In particular I remember one old woman who always looked bedraggled and smelt terribly of a mixture of dirt, sweat and booze. She would come into the store and hang around making it difficult for other customers to come in. She really was looking for a hand out. To buy more booze. I think a lot of people would sell their furniture in order to get booze money or “ fag” money. This was the days before hard drugs or pot. I hate to think what it must be like today !
In the back of the store there was a small kitchen, or space for making tea with a small stove, and a small dirty toilet. There always seemed to be people “hanging” around this area. In fact I think they were mostly plain clothes policemen, since there was a lot of petty crime in the area. They would come in to chat and have a cup of tea. They were big hefty men, and I suppose my father (and I ) must have looked pretty small next to them. They were decent guys doing a job.
When I was about 16 and began to be uninterested in school studies I often worked in the shop. I would open the store in the morning, wash the windows with a pole attachment, dust the furniture and wait on customers. I found the process quite boring, and would saunter off down Maryhill road looking at other stores, or go in and talk to the women who worked in the R.S.McColl sweet store a few doors down. During the war years I would spend my sweet rationing coupons in this store. I probably never ate so many sweets in my entire life as I did during this period. The result was in later life, rotting teeth. The women who ran the store “ spoiled” me and were always giving me Rowntree gums or Mackintosh Quality Street. A few years later when I returned to Glasgow for a stint at college I would still go in to the store and say hello and get my fill of sweets. A combination of sweets and British dentistry meant that to this day I have constant oral problems. Next door there was a butcher store, which always smelt of blood and meat. This was the days before refrigeration and the meat would hang as carcasses at the back of the store. The specialty of the store was “ black pudding”. A sausage made out of blood. To this day I have never tried to eat it, I must have been disgusted by it, possibly because I was also trying to keep Kosher. I suppose they must have had blocks of ice delivered to keep the meat cool.
The store remained in business until my father’s death. I think he wanted to hand it over to John Duncan, my brother in law. A second store was opened next door, a betting store (Bookie). Betting on Greyhound dogs and horse racing had become legal and was a thriving business.
For many years I have avoided going into a secondhand furniture store. It brought back too many bad memories. In retrospect selling second hand furniture is no worse than any other retail business, and with the large number of garage sales in the US, people are always looking for bargains. I think that the socialist education I received in the movement (Habonim) instilled in me a sort of disgust of business. It was associated with Diaspora Jewry (as opposed to the educated peasant of the youth movement) and bourgeois life, the antithesis of what we (or I) was going to become in Israel.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Why write a blog?. Israel in the New York times
Although this blog started out with the idea that is would mostly be my autobiography, I have decided that if it is to be a true blog, I should write more than what happened to me 50-60 years ago. I have a store of small vignettes about my life in Scotland, Israel the USA but I will post them, perhaps once a week so as not to bore my readers.
Why does one write a blog? I have been thinking about this the last day or so. I suppose it is in part to fulfill an ego, to let the world know what I am doing and thinking. Most of us have no effect on what happens around us, or even in many cases to ourselves, and thus we can express our feeling through the blog. Perhaps it will influence someone to think the way I do. Perhaps it is also a way of making friends and communicating with people with common interests, which has become harder as everyone seems busy with their own pursuits. This would explain the popularity of social networks like facebook, which apparently the young (relatively speaking) go to constantly to record the trivial happenings in their lives.
My wife has become very involved with an E-mail list, people with origins in Czernowitz, in the Ukraine. From this correspondence about the past, has developed bonds and strong friendships. Most of the people on the list have never met each other, but they correspond as if family, and not only discuss genealogy, which was the original aim, but also recipes, trips, pictures of the city as it was 60 years ago. As someone said to me, people need roots and this is on way of identifying with a group with similar feelings. When they mkeet there is instant friendship.
Actually what prompted me to write today was an article in yesterdays New York Times by Roger Cohen. I have the impression that the NY times, has to publish something with a slightly anti-Israeli slant every day. This article was about the lack of “ recognition or “ emotion” in the US press (or TV) to the killing of a young Turkish-American by Israeli commandoes on the ill fated flotilla of a bout a month ago, and the claim made that if he was Jewish –American and had been killed by Hamas or some other organization there would have been an outcry. Like any sane person I feel sorry for the life lost. However this was a kid who left the US at the age of 2 and returned with his parents to Turkey. This young man was born in the States probably by accident, his father spending time as a foreign student (or post-doc). He did not grow up in Troy, New York, no one knew him, and apart from the accident of birth he was not an American teenager. Therefore one would not expect a hue and cry. The whole purpose of the article appeared to me to “ stick it “ to Israel. I agree that the blockade of Gaza as carried out was stupid, and the flotilla did succeed in its aim of breaking the blockade to some extent. Israel makes mistakes, as do all governments. The fuss over this particular event was hypocritical, since there are many more civilian deaths as a result of military action in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Chechnya, China or elsewhere committed by all sides and there is not this hysteria.
I will not defend Israeli actions carte blanche, but there has to be some semblance of honesty and balance in reporting
So much for politics. I am also busy writing a book on viruses and history, based on the last course I taught at IU. It is almost complete, and I hope to send it to some publishers soon.
At the weekend I will post another chapter on growing up in Scotland or something humorous about the days on the commune ( Hachshara) in Southern England.
Why does one write a blog? I have been thinking about this the last day or so. I suppose it is in part to fulfill an ego, to let the world know what I am doing and thinking. Most of us have no effect on what happens around us, or even in many cases to ourselves, and thus we can express our feeling through the blog. Perhaps it will influence someone to think the way I do. Perhaps it is also a way of making friends and communicating with people with common interests, which has become harder as everyone seems busy with their own pursuits. This would explain the popularity of social networks like facebook, which apparently the young (relatively speaking) go to constantly to record the trivial happenings in their lives.
My wife has become very involved with an E-mail list, people with origins in Czernowitz, in the Ukraine. From this correspondence about the past, has developed bonds and strong friendships. Most of the people on the list have never met each other, but they correspond as if family, and not only discuss genealogy, which was the original aim, but also recipes, trips, pictures of the city as it was 60 years ago. As someone said to me, people need roots and this is on way of identifying with a group with similar feelings. When they mkeet there is instant friendship.
Actually what prompted me to write today was an article in yesterdays New York Times by Roger Cohen. I have the impression that the NY times, has to publish something with a slightly anti-Israeli slant every day. This article was about the lack of “ recognition or “ emotion” in the US press (or TV) to the killing of a young Turkish-American by Israeli commandoes on the ill fated flotilla of a bout a month ago, and the claim made that if he was Jewish –American and had been killed by Hamas or some other organization there would have been an outcry. Like any sane person I feel sorry for the life lost. However this was a kid who left the US at the age of 2 and returned with his parents to Turkey. This young man was born in the States probably by accident, his father spending time as a foreign student (or post-doc). He did not grow up in Troy, New York, no one knew him, and apart from the accident of birth he was not an American teenager. Therefore one would not expect a hue and cry. The whole purpose of the article appeared to me to “ stick it “ to Israel. I agree that the blockade of Gaza as carried out was stupid, and the flotilla did succeed in its aim of breaking the blockade to some extent. Israel makes mistakes, as do all governments. The fuss over this particular event was hypocritical, since there are many more civilian deaths as a result of military action in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Chechnya, China or elsewhere committed by all sides and there is not this hysteria.
I will not defend Israeli actions carte blanche, but there has to be some semblance of honesty and balance in reporting
So much for politics. I am also busy writing a book on viruses and history, based on the last course I taught at IU. It is almost complete, and I hope to send it to some publishers soon.
At the weekend I will post another chapter on growing up in Scotland or something humorous about the days on the commune ( Hachshara) in Southern England.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The war years
Chapter 3. The war years.
I was but a child when the war broke out in September 1939. I was eight years old. I remember being issued a gas mask, and being taught how to use it. To this day I can smell the rubber and feel the tightness of the mask. School life was disrupted, and I with my mother and two sisters and a few hundred other children were evacuated to Mauchline, a small town in Ayrshire, quite far from any potential target of German bombers. Mauchline was famous as the locale where the poet ‘Robbie Burns lived at one time. Thousands of children, all carrying packages with their gas masks and with a label identifying the name and location of home, some with mothers, descended on the railway station and boarded special trains . I only have vague memories of the village. We were billeted to the house of the “ laird”, a very large, or seemed to me, mansion with extensive grounds. Some how I must have got lost at one time in these grounds, since for years afterwards I have had dreams of wandering around glens and not being able to find my way home. The Glasgow evacuees were a rag tag bunch, coming mostly from working class families, children of shipyard and dock workers, the major industries of Glasgow at that time. I have no recollection of attending school there, and it is quite possible that I did not. After a few weeks when nothing happened, the so-called “ phony war “ we returned to Glasgow.
At that time we lived in what was called a tenement. These were massive multistoried (3-4) buildings, made out of either dark granite or reddish sandstone. One entered through the “ close” and climbed up broken down stairs to reach the flat. In the back of the building there was a central court or square surrounded by four such tenements where we kids would play. This was also where the middens were kept. This was a poor neighborhood, and I distinctly remember my mother taking great care that I should appear clean and well dressed, and not look like the ruffians of the neighborhood. We played games in this backyard, and mothers would throw their children “ pieces”, the Glasgow slang for a slice of bread. “Maw, give us a piece”. We played “peever”, a sort of hop scotch and conkers with horse chestnuts. At the age of five I started in Scotland St. Elementary School.
I was fascinated by the night skies, they were all lit up with search lights looking for possible enemy bombers, and during the day there were grey and silver balloons (blimps) to entrap enemy planes. However nothing much happened. The news from Europe was dreadful, and I remember have a large map of Europe and with the help of my father putting pins marking the advances of the German army. Thus I learned European geography.
We were scared not only of the potential for bombings but also the fear of a German invasion and occupation. Being Jewish we were only too well aware of what might await us if the Nazi’s occupied Scotland. We had quite a few German-Jewish refugees in our neighbourhood (we meanwhile had moved up in the world to a tenement in a slightly better area, from Pollok St, which today no longer exists to Dixon Avenue, near Queens Park.) and had heard horrible stories of what was transpiring in Europe. I remember some of these refugee families who had children approximately my age. I noticed how good looking the girls were. Also Grandma/Grandpa Taylor had taken in some refugees from Germany. I don’t really remember whether they actually lived in my grand-parents house or in Barnett Taylor, my grandfather’s brother’s house. I remember the boy was called Norbet and he had a sister. I think the surname was Heller. I have no idea what happened to them.
Arrangements were made to house me with a Scottish family named Fraser if the Nazi’s occupied the country. I never discovered any details of the arrangement, but I know they would pretend I was their son if the worst did happen. I have attempted to find out more about them but unsuccessfully. All I remember was that they had a son also called Milton and that there was some Canadian connection. I have found a Hamish Fraser in Google who was a communist leader at the shipyards my father worked in, and he may have been the head of that family. There was talk of sending me and my sisters on one of the boats evacuating children to Australia, where we had distant relatives , cousins of my mother. Many of these ships were torpedoed on the way, and in retrospect staying in Scotland was undoubtedly the best decision.
For the first two years of the war very little happened in Glasgow. There were a few probing raids, lots of noise of anti-aircraft fire, and a few bombs. I still vividly remember coming out of a cinema with my mother ( I do not remember the film, but it may have been the Mummy’s Hand , because I know I was also fightened by the film) , while an air raid was going on. I remember the noise of ack-acks, the fear and the rush to get home. No announcement had been made and we were quite unaware of any raid.
In March of 1941 the raids started in earnest. This was after the blitzes on Liverpool and Manchester. The Germans worked their way systematically North. Glasgow was a prime target because of the docks. In two nights they hit Clydeside. A large area near the city, known as Clydebank and Maryhill area of Glasgow were destroyed. After the first blitz, I wandered the streets near Ibrox marveling at all the people bandaged up and the destruction of houses, tenements with large gaps in them, and burnt out churches. This all seemed very exciting to a child of 10. Since we lived in close proximity to the river Clyde, my parents decided to spend the next few nights with my grandmother Taylor, who lived in an area ironically called Battlefield, further away from the river. The area was called Battlefield because of the battle of Langside (near by) between the followers of Mary Queen of Scots and the Protestant supporters of her son James 1 of England ( VI of Scotland ) . As expected there was another blitz the next night badly damaging the shipyards. I think it was during this air-raid that my Uncle David and family (on my mother’s side of the family) were bombed out. Apparently the bomb hit the shelter, and every one inside was killed, whereas those who stayed in the building survived. The newly married David and Sadie lost everything, but at least they survived. The bombs most certainly did not hit their targets but a middle class residential area, Shawlands killing many people.
After this Glasgow was left very much alone. There were occasional other raids, one of which was a firebomb raid. Incendiaries fell around the brick shelter in the back yard in which we had taken refuge. I remember the terrifying screams of my sister and mother when the shelter door was opened and there were flames all around. For the moment we thought we would not be able to get out. Everyone was terrified. When we did get out the sky was completely red, and there were fires all around. We were now living in the Queens Park area, and a beautiful church just round the corner from Dixon Avenue was completely destroyed.
Despite all of this life continued normally (or so it seemed to a 10 year-12 year old child). I attended school, by this time Hutchie, and went to Cheder ( Hebrew classes) after school , at a synagogue in Niddrie Rd. I had Hebrew lessons, I assume in preparation for my barmitzvah, which would have been in December of 1944. I really do not remember very much about the event. I think it was held in the Marlborough, and I received the usual number of fountain pens ! As far as I know there are no existing photographs of the event. The war was still on and thee was strict rationing.
I would visit my grandparents in Battlefield once a week. Kitty and Louis Flacks, with Cyril and Barry and later Irene lived downstairs from the grandparents, next to the Tonic cinema in Battlefield Rd. I remember Flora talking about her boy friend who was a prisoner of war, and I remember Minnie sending me out to buy some “ elbow grease” at the kiosk near the tramcar stop. My laziness must have been apparent at a very young age! My grandfather was doing very well with the factory producing uniforms for soldiers. However he died in the middle of the war (1942), and the factory was run by my uncles Norman and Louis. The house was always full of people, and my great grandmother Ellen (Ellke) always sat in a corner. She did not speak English and I was rather afraid of her. According to my records and I do not know if they are correct she died in 1946 at the age of 107. I find that hard to believe.
During the war my father worked as a riveter in the John Brown shipyards. This was the alternative to going into the army, since he had three children. Although the pay was not great, we some how survived, as did everyone else. As life improved, either because the war was winding down or there was an increase in prosperity, he would come home on Friday evening’s laden with fruit, and the visit to Ettingers, the delicatessen in the Gorbals was a major event every Sunday morning. I don’t think anywhere sold as good herring and pickles, and bagels, a luxury ( also rare food ) at that time.
As far as I remember my childhood was happy, despite the war. I had music lessons (piano), tap dancing, and at one time even Highland Dancing lessons, although this might have been later when I was about 14.
One disturbing thing that seemed to have made a deep impression was that towards the end of the war, or perhaps right after the end, my father was arrested and accused of dealing in black market cloth. I think clothing and cloth were rationed. There was no real evidence against him, and the general impression was that he was arrested because he was Jewish. Whether this was true or not I do not know, but this was what was said at home. Luckily my mother’s parents were wealthy enough to get a good lawyer, a Queen’s counsel, and the case was dismissed. I think he spent a week in jail, during which time we lived with my grandparents. This was shortly after he re-opened his furniture store.
Next chapter will deal with teen age years and their problems.
I was but a child when the war broke out in September 1939. I was eight years old. I remember being issued a gas mask, and being taught how to use it. To this day I can smell the rubber and feel the tightness of the mask. School life was disrupted, and I with my mother and two sisters and a few hundred other children were evacuated to Mauchline, a small town in Ayrshire, quite far from any potential target of German bombers. Mauchline was famous as the locale where the poet ‘Robbie Burns lived at one time. Thousands of children, all carrying packages with their gas masks and with a label identifying the name and location of home, some with mothers, descended on the railway station and boarded special trains . I only have vague memories of the village. We were billeted to the house of the “ laird”, a very large, or seemed to me, mansion with extensive grounds. Some how I must have got lost at one time in these grounds, since for years afterwards I have had dreams of wandering around glens and not being able to find my way home. The Glasgow evacuees were a rag tag bunch, coming mostly from working class families, children of shipyard and dock workers, the major industries of Glasgow at that time. I have no recollection of attending school there, and it is quite possible that I did not. After a few weeks when nothing happened, the so-called “ phony war “ we returned to Glasgow.
At that time we lived in what was called a tenement. These were massive multistoried (3-4) buildings, made out of either dark granite or reddish sandstone. One entered through the “ close” and climbed up broken down stairs to reach the flat. In the back of the building there was a central court or square surrounded by four such tenements where we kids would play. This was also where the middens were kept. This was a poor neighborhood, and I distinctly remember my mother taking great care that I should appear clean and well dressed, and not look like the ruffians of the neighborhood. We played games in this backyard, and mothers would throw their children “ pieces”, the Glasgow slang for a slice of bread. “Maw, give us a piece”. We played “peever”, a sort of hop scotch and conkers with horse chestnuts. At the age of five I started in Scotland St. Elementary School.
I was fascinated by the night skies, they were all lit up with search lights looking for possible enemy bombers, and during the day there were grey and silver balloons (blimps) to entrap enemy planes. However nothing much happened. The news from Europe was dreadful, and I remember have a large map of Europe and with the help of my father putting pins marking the advances of the German army. Thus I learned European geography.
We were scared not only of the potential for bombings but also the fear of a German invasion and occupation. Being Jewish we were only too well aware of what might await us if the Nazi’s occupied Scotland. We had quite a few German-Jewish refugees in our neighbourhood (we meanwhile had moved up in the world to a tenement in a slightly better area, from Pollok St, which today no longer exists to Dixon Avenue, near Queens Park.) and had heard horrible stories of what was transpiring in Europe. I remember some of these refugee families who had children approximately my age. I noticed how good looking the girls were. Also Grandma/Grandpa Taylor had taken in some refugees from Germany. I don’t really remember whether they actually lived in my grand-parents house or in Barnett Taylor, my grandfather’s brother’s house. I remember the boy was called Norbet and he had a sister. I think the surname was Heller. I have no idea what happened to them.
Arrangements were made to house me with a Scottish family named Fraser if the Nazi’s occupied the country. I never discovered any details of the arrangement, but I know they would pretend I was their son if the worst did happen. I have attempted to find out more about them but unsuccessfully. All I remember was that they had a son also called Milton and that there was some Canadian connection. I have found a Hamish Fraser in Google who was a communist leader at the shipyards my father worked in, and he may have been the head of that family. There was talk of sending me and my sisters on one of the boats evacuating children to Australia, where we had distant relatives , cousins of my mother. Many of these ships were torpedoed on the way, and in retrospect staying in Scotland was undoubtedly the best decision.
For the first two years of the war very little happened in Glasgow. There were a few probing raids, lots of noise of anti-aircraft fire, and a few bombs. I still vividly remember coming out of a cinema with my mother ( I do not remember the film, but it may have been the Mummy’s Hand , because I know I was also fightened by the film) , while an air raid was going on. I remember the noise of ack-acks, the fear and the rush to get home. No announcement had been made and we were quite unaware of any raid.
In March of 1941 the raids started in earnest. This was after the blitzes on Liverpool and Manchester. The Germans worked their way systematically North. Glasgow was a prime target because of the docks. In two nights they hit Clydeside. A large area near the city, known as Clydebank and Maryhill area of Glasgow were destroyed. After the first blitz, I wandered the streets near Ibrox marveling at all the people bandaged up and the destruction of houses, tenements with large gaps in them, and burnt out churches. This all seemed very exciting to a child of 10. Since we lived in close proximity to the river Clyde, my parents decided to spend the next few nights with my grandmother Taylor, who lived in an area ironically called Battlefield, further away from the river. The area was called Battlefield because of the battle of Langside (near by) between the followers of Mary Queen of Scots and the Protestant supporters of her son James 1 of England ( VI of Scotland ) . As expected there was another blitz the next night badly damaging the shipyards. I think it was during this air-raid that my Uncle David and family (on my mother’s side of the family) were bombed out. Apparently the bomb hit the shelter, and every one inside was killed, whereas those who stayed in the building survived. The newly married David and Sadie lost everything, but at least they survived. The bombs most certainly did not hit their targets but a middle class residential area, Shawlands killing many people.
After this Glasgow was left very much alone. There were occasional other raids, one of which was a firebomb raid. Incendiaries fell around the brick shelter in the back yard in which we had taken refuge. I remember the terrifying screams of my sister and mother when the shelter door was opened and there were flames all around. For the moment we thought we would not be able to get out. Everyone was terrified. When we did get out the sky was completely red, and there were fires all around. We were now living in the Queens Park area, and a beautiful church just round the corner from Dixon Avenue was completely destroyed.
Despite all of this life continued normally (or so it seemed to a 10 year-12 year old child). I attended school, by this time Hutchie, and went to Cheder ( Hebrew classes) after school , at a synagogue in Niddrie Rd. I had Hebrew lessons, I assume in preparation for my barmitzvah, which would have been in December of 1944. I really do not remember very much about the event. I think it was held in the Marlborough, and I received the usual number of fountain pens ! As far as I know there are no existing photographs of the event. The war was still on and thee was strict rationing.
I would visit my grandparents in Battlefield once a week. Kitty and Louis Flacks, with Cyril and Barry and later Irene lived downstairs from the grandparents, next to the Tonic cinema in Battlefield Rd. I remember Flora talking about her boy friend who was a prisoner of war, and I remember Minnie sending me out to buy some “ elbow grease” at the kiosk near the tramcar stop. My laziness must have been apparent at a very young age! My grandfather was doing very well with the factory producing uniforms for soldiers. However he died in the middle of the war (1942), and the factory was run by my uncles Norman and Louis. The house was always full of people, and my great grandmother Ellen (Ellke) always sat in a corner. She did not speak English and I was rather afraid of her. According to my records and I do not know if they are correct she died in 1946 at the age of 107. I find that hard to believe.
During the war my father worked as a riveter in the John Brown shipyards. This was the alternative to going into the army, since he had three children. Although the pay was not great, we some how survived, as did everyone else. As life improved, either because the war was winding down or there was an increase in prosperity, he would come home on Friday evening’s laden with fruit, and the visit to Ettingers, the delicatessen in the Gorbals was a major event every Sunday morning. I don’t think anywhere sold as good herring and pickles, and bagels, a luxury ( also rare food ) at that time.
As far as I remember my childhood was happy, despite the war. I had music lessons (piano), tap dancing, and at one time even Highland Dancing lessons, although this might have been later when I was about 14.
One disturbing thing that seemed to have made a deep impression was that towards the end of the war, or perhaps right after the end, my father was arrested and accused of dealing in black market cloth. I think clothing and cloth were rationed. There was no real evidence against him, and the general impression was that he was arrested because he was Jewish. Whether this was true or not I do not know, but this was what was said at home. Luckily my mother’s parents were wealthy enough to get a good lawyer, a Queen’s counsel, and the case was dismissed. I think he spent a week in jail, during which time we lived with my grandparents. This was shortly after he re-opened his furniture store.
Next chapter will deal with teen age years and their problems.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Chapter 2.Grammar school
Chapter 2. Grammar School:
Grammar School:
Every morning as we congregated for prayers we sang the school song,
I do not remember the real version but the following
“ In 1650 the school began with 12 boys eating rolls,
They bent their backs to the master’s whacks
For the benefit of their sandshoe soles.”
In these days sneakers were called sandshoes or later tennis shoes. I saw some advertised on e-bay from Australia and the U.K. so the name still stands.
This was followed by morning prayers in the great hall in which all the staff would assemble in their gowns, and the head master or one of the other masters would lead us in the “ Lord’s prayer,” or some other hymn or psalm. As a kid from a Jewish home I was exempt from these prayers, but I did not want to stand out and be different, so that I participated most of the time. I don’t think the exposure did me any harm.
Hutcheson’s Boys Grammar School was founded by George and Thomas Hutcheson in 1641. The original intention was that the school be for orphans. By 1650 there were 12 boys attending, thus on the roll in the school song. The location I attended was actually built in 1839 in Crown Street, at the edge of the Gorbals, which during my time was a notorious slum. In order to get there I had to take a tramcar from Queens Park where we lived, and walk a few blocks past the taunts of the local ruffians who would call us at the best Hutchie Bugs, or usually some other epithet. The school was a large Victorian style building, rather cavernous, dark and grey/black sandstone. It was quite a depressing site from the outside. It always seemed to me to be cold, and the main heating was the fireplace in the classrooms. It often was so cold, that the milk bottles would be brought in: each student was entitled to ½ pint of milk for halfpenny a day, and placed in front of the fireplace to thaw out. The classrooms were large and desks organized in long rows. At each desk there was an inkwell filled with blue ink, these were the days before fountain pens and ballpoints, and we all used old- fashioned pens with nibs, or pencil for writing. As I remember classes were large, about 40 students per class. The desks were one continuous row seating about 12 boys.
There must have been about 800 students in the school, all dressed in school uniform, a blue cap with black band, blue blazer with the word “ veritas” under the school emblem. Veritas, truth was the school motto.
I was a small dark boy with masses of curly hair. For some reason I was nicknamed Tony right away, and this stuck during my period at school. Either it was because I looked Italian, or because Tony was a corruption of Milton, take away the Mil and add a Y. I was about 10 when I started this school, having sat some type of exam and won a place as a Founders boy. In these days it was not called a fellowship, although a founders boy paid no tuition or at least very little. I came from quite a poor family who could not have afforded to send me to a private school. This must have been the original idea of the Hutcheson’s Brothers when they set up the school for orphans. My previous school, Scotland St, Elementary school was later to be recognized as an architectural gem, built by the famous architect Rennie Mackintosh, but it was in a poor working class district, and I apparently excelled among the other students. Thus I sat an entrance exam about the age of 10 or 11 and was assigned to the A section of the grammar school. By all accounts I was a very smart kid, who learned to read at about the age of three.
In Hutchie classes were divided along classical (language) lines. The top students were in the A classes where we studied Latin and then a year later Greek, the B class studied Latin and French, C, French and German and D only French. Each year was referred to as a Form, and I was in the 1st form, and school would continue through the 6th form. I soon found out that I was not good with languages, and was often belted for having more than two mistakes in Latin composition. The Latin Master was a Mr. Dorian, and he, at least to me, was a terror. I have heard from others that when he left Hutcheson’s for a position at another school, Albert Rd Academy, that he continued his reign of terror. I must have been a good student originally to continue in the A classes. To some extent I envied the boys in the B classes since they were at least learning something useful, a modern language, namely French. It seemed to me that the training I was receiving would be good for the ministry or law, but not for much else. We did have some mathematics, some art (drawing) and history, mostly Scottish history and of course English and singing. I distinctly remember all the Scottish songs such as Annie Lurie and “I tak the high road” etc. that we sang. Most were probably of Jacobin origin, and encouraged a sense of Scottish nationalism, as did history, which always seemed to revolve around the wars between Scotland and England. Later on we had some “ British history” which always stopped at that villain Napoleon! There was, at least in the years I attended, no chemistry or physics. Other private schools were for science such as Allan Glen Academy. We did read quite a lot of Robert Burns, difficult to understand being in a very Scottish dialect. I do not want to give the impression we only read Scottish Authors since we also studied the poetry of Keats and Wordsworth and did read quite a bit of Dickens. There always was a Shakespeare play every term.
I was a very quiet boy, unfortunately not interested in sport. We had cricket and soccer once or twice a week in the schools private playing fields, somewhere in the Southside of Glasgow. I usually stood aside and was a spectator, or later on did not go at all. I was a very lonely boy at school and had few good friends. I had one friend in 2B and 3B, a Donald Dickson (or Dickenson) with whom I would go out to tearooms, or visit his home. We enjoyed each other’s company and I was made very welcome by his parents. His house was much richer and cleaner than mine, and I was embarrassed to invite him home. When I left school in 1946 or 1947 I lost contact with him. I did write him a letter explaining my motives for leaving Scotland but he could not understand them. I’ll leave my motives for another chapter.
I have tried to figure out what made me so shy and quiet, and in many respects anti-social and a loner. I was actually a happy child, and had a fairly happy childhood. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, my mothers parents, and they always spoiled me in terms of sweets, money etc. They gave me a lot of love. My parents sent me to various classes, such as music (piano), dance, (tap and Scottish) and probably indulged me when they could hardly afford it. Was the shyness genetic? Looking at my own children and grandchildren I find some of the same characteristic. Perhaps I was self-sufficient and did not need the rowdiness of other children. I spent a lot of time on my own in the public library from a very young age, before even going to Hutchie. I got a great amount of enjoyment from reading. I immersed myself in the 10 volumes of the Book of Knowledge that I must have received as a present about the age of 10. I had all kinds of children’s encyclopedias.
Was being Jewish a factor in this lack of social interactions? Although the family was not religious, I heard a lot of talk about things a Jewish boy does not do, such as play football, go to the local swimming pool (the baths), play with “hooligans” etc. At a very young age, about 9 or 10 I was sent for private Hebrew lessons to a woman named, Eva Ross, who lived in Sinclair Drive, in Battlefield. She was to have a tremendous influence on me, introducing me to Zionism, the idea that we did not belong in Scotland but in Israel (Palestine) and to the youth movement Habonim. This was a labor Zionist youth movement, akin to the scouts but with nationalist and socialist overtones. I also started going to heder (Hebrew-religious school) to learn Hebrew, and how to pray and study Torah (Bible) and there I did make friends with other kids, namely Tommy Berman, a “ refugee” from Czechoslovakia who had been adopted by a friend of my mother, Mrs. Miller, and through Tommy other kids including Basil Rifkind. Later on in life, about the age of 14-16 we three hung around together for a short time. I was also influenced greatly by the Rabbi at Niddrie Road Synagogue, which was very close to our house on Dixon Ave. Rabbi Singer “adopted” me and decided I should play an important role in the community and in the synagogue. Thus all these influences and to some extent “ brain washing” on a small child must have made me feel different from all the other children. I was the only Jewish boy in my elementary school class and likewise in my class at Hutchie. And this might have had a defining influence. Later on the struggle between the Jewish underground movements in Palestine and the British army made the situation even more acute. In fact during this period I became friendly with a Bernard Epstein. I have no idea where I met him, perhaps in Cheder. He or his father subscribed to the “ revisionist” newspaper, which supported the Irgun Zvei Leumi (Etzel) in Palestine, and was very anti-British. I was deeply influenced by this and I suppose this added to my estrangement and feeling of not belonging in Scotland. We talked and dreamt as teens do of taking part in some “ liberation” action for the good of the Jewish people. All of this was just talk, and I do not know what became of Bernard after I left Glasgow.
I did consider studying music (piano) seriously. I had a good ear for music, and could sight read extremely well. I gave a few performances at local events, and even had a few pupils for a time. I enjoyed playing Chopin and in particular Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. However again at the age of 16 I lost interest. Perhaps all sorts of hormones were active. Although there were girls in the Habonim group, we basically hung around as a group, and did not have any sexual relationships. This did not occur until I had left Glasgow and went on Hachsharah. (Training farm for life in a kibbutz in Israel). Music was to become quite an important part of my life later on, influencing my marriage and also where we lived.
My studies certainly suffered from my other interests and problems, and I went from being an A student to what I would term today a D student. I think it was lack of interest in the subjects, and knowing that my future was not wrapped up in this society. About the age of 16 I told my parents I was quitting school. No one made any attempt to persuade me otherwise and thus finished a chapter in my life. One of my friends, Tommy, who went through the same brain washing tells me that the same “leader” came to his parents house to persuade them to let him go on Hachshara, but his parents would not hear of it before he finished high school, and matriculated. My experiences during this time in Habonim I will leave for another chapter. The movement had a great influence on me. Thus I did not complete high school, and this was to cause me many problems later in life.
I recently visited Hutchesons’ grammar school. It is a new school, the old building in Crown Street being torn down. The new School is in a nicer part of the city, still in the South side, not far from Queens Park and is now co-educational. It’s emphasis has shifted completely, the emphasis being on the arts, music, and sciences. There was little evidence of a classical education. They have very nice facilities for all of these subjects, and I was quite impressed by what I saw. Two students showed me around, very proud of the school and its music art program. Quite different from the days that I attended. The student body is very heterogeneous, a large percentage Indian, Pakistani, and Jewish. In fact “ diversity” of the student body appears to be important, not at all as in my days at the school. I those days White protestant Scottish predominated. I cannot remember a single Pakistani or Indian pupil. This of course may have reflected the racial make up of Glasgow.
What was Glasgow like during these days, of the 1940’s? This was the period of the war, when the city was quite damaged by the Blitz’s. Most of the damage was along the River Clyde. It was a very miserable city; grey and dark, always appeared to be raining or grey and cold. If the temperature reached 650F. it was considered a heat wave. It was also a heavily industrial city, with shipyards being the main industry. The city was poor, as were the inhabitants. Mostly it was a working class city. The air was “ dark” and heavy because of the burning of coal as a means of heating the houses. Even the school as mentioned above had a coal fireplace. The coal was delivered in large black sacks by horse and cart. During or because of anticipated shortages it was often stored in the house (in some cases in the bath). The streets were full of horse dung, no one thought of hanging a bag from the rear end of the horse. In fact horse and cart delivered many items, including bread and milk, etc. Lorries were reserved for larger items such as furniture.
Occasionally for relaxation a few schoolmates and I would saunter down Sauchiehall Street and go to one of the tearooms for tea and cakes. Glasgow bakeries have always been very good, and I remember cream filled meringues, and cream puffs served with a good pot of tea. I loved to walk down Sauchiehall Street to my father’s shop, which was at the end of this main thoroughfare, past George’s Cross (no longer there but site of a highway overpass) to Maryhill road. My fathers shop was quite close to the Cross, and from school to the shop was probably a couple of miles. This was the day before it was a pedestrian mall, but when tramcars or buses ran its length. Perhaps I stopped of at the Willow tearoom for my tea, unbeknown that this was a famous landmark. Like my elementary school a café built by Rennie Mackintosh, that was to become famous many years later.
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