Open Writing

1936-1946 The Adolescent Years

My father, totally uneducated but highly intelligent and well read, reading two national newspapers each day including Sundays, a member of the Left Book Club Society and, I suspect, a member of the Communist Party, had always told me interesting stories about his past, of his time alone in Berlin as a sixteen year old during the First World War, about his travels in Europe soon after the war and his failed attempt to get into Canada in 1920, and how he was smuggled into England by his older brothers already living here. He made me promise to keep the secret of his exploits when gold smuggling from France in the 1930's, and stories about a greatly admired and much loved older brother Selig who, he suggested, was a spy for the Soviet Union.

Always being very impressionable, exciting stuff like that I believed without question. So when one day in early summer of 1936 my father told me that I would be going to France to stay with his Parisian friend and family, I thought I would be helping him. I was not worried and was really looking forward to it, because in those days of very limited foreign travel for any but the very rich, as a ten year old I was really being very fortunate.

My father and I left London after the shop closed on the Saturday night, and by 10.00 pm we were aboard the night ferry out of Newhaven, bound for Dieppe a four hour sea journey across the English Channel. Of course, at 2.00 am when the ship docked, and when we made our way to the train that was to take us to Paris, I was barely awake. We arrived about 8.00 am on the Sunday morning and were met by my father's friends Alba, his wife (I don't recall her name), their daughter Henriette aged about 17 years, who would be returning to London with my father, and Richard their son of about 12 with whom I was meant to become friendly. This proved most unlikely, as we seemed to take an instant dislike for each other. My father was intending to return to London on the Thursday, and I let him know in no uncertain terms that I did not want to stay, although eventually I did.

Before my father returned to London, we went together to the Bastille Day celebrations on July 14th and heard a lot speeches by people the French wanted to see and hear, one of whom was the famous French socialist Leon Blum. At the time I was wearing a tooth brace to straighten up some teeth that were growing out of alignment. I was supposed to take it out after each meal to wash. Of course, in this enormous field there was no running water and, when I found a bucket with water standing near a beer tent, I washed it out in that. Now of course I realise that the water was being used to wash the dirty beer glasses in, and I shall always recall the foul taste when I replaced the brace in my mouth!

After a couple of weeks of living in Alba's tiny two bedroomed accommodation, I was told that we were going on holiday to the south and, next day, we made our way to the train which was to take us to the Riviera, the so-called playground of the idle rich, staying in a small hotel. I wasn't really interested in the beach or the water, and I was soon off on my own again, helping the local milkman with his deliveries, helping the local railwayman who looked after the signal box and the level crossing gates, and generally exploring the local byways on the bicycle I had at my disposal. I found my way into and was able to explore semi derelict mansions and estates, abandoned years previously by former wealthy potentates and dignitaries, some private beaches and other interesting locations. I think I must have been a bit of a nuisance though. But I was doing no harm.

On looking back, I can understand the concern of Alba and his wife at my apparent preference for my own company. But they did not understand me. He spoke only limited English, although always insisting upon reading my letters from home. One day, the word 'nice' appeared in one of my letters and Alba said, in his broken English, "Ah, you have a town in England also called nice?" He had mistaken the word for the town of Nice just along the coast from us. This angered me so much that I took to my bike and I was away from them for a whole day.

Next day Alba said to me, something like "Your father is here". I immediately went to where I was told he was, but found a group of total strangers waiting for me. I ran off again. Alba by now must have been desperate and contacted my family probably telling them that I was mad or something, and next day my father did arrive. It turned out that the group who had been introduced to me were my father's brother Selig and family. Things quietened down after the arrival of my father, and soon after we left the Riviera and moved on to Alassio in Italy where my uncle lived, and we stayed there for a further week before returning to London. On looking back I realise how fortunate I had been, but that I was much too young to appreciate it.

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If you wish to make a donation to the Elsa Benedyk Memorial Fund, set up by her friends and colleagues entirely without Raymon’s knowledge to provide funds to support the children's ward of the Shaare Zedek Hospital in Jerusalem to commemorate her life of work with children in her nursery schools, it would be most gratefully received. The amount that you give will not be revealed to Raymon. He is not a trustee of the fund. Your cheque, payable to the Fund, should be sent to the fund's Treasurer Mrs I Dokelman, 14 Charville Court, 30/32 Gayton Road, Harrow, Middx HA1 2HT.