This evening – Monday 22nd April – will be the beginning of Passover, when Jewish families all over the world will be sitting down to the Passover Seder.
Every year, the Passover story is told. How we, the Jewish people, were once slaves in Egypt and are now free.
Jesus, who of course was Jewish – as were his disciples – was celebrating the Passover meal (Seder) at The Last Supper.
Passover often coincides with Easter – hence the first line of this poem. It also often coincides with my birthday – though not this year I am glad to say. Growing up this meant that I rarely enjoyed traditional birthday cake or a birthday tea. Having said that, Passover biscuits such as cinnamon balls are so yummy that I often wonder why we don’t have them all year round!
PASSOVER DITTY
When you’re celebrating *Easter,
it’s Passover for me,
no bread or cake or biscuits,
just matzos for our tea!
We have to eat unleavened bread
that’s matzo don’t you know,
they’re rather tasty crackers
but for eight days it’s a blow.
We cannot bake with flour
so use substitutes instead,
coconut and ground almonds
because there isn’t any bread.
It’s the festival of freedom
when we fled Egypt long ago
but just as relevant today
with what’s going on you know!
NB – I wrote this poem last year when Passover was, as it so often is, at Easter.
If you would like my recipe for cinnamon balls, please let me know.
Do you, like me, have a kitchen drawer filled with a collection of utensils you hardly ever use, although they all seemed a great idea at the time?
Take, for example, my falafel spoon. I love falafel and always wanted to make my own. All I needed was the right spoon. Many years ago, we hunted through supermarkets in Tel Aviv for a falafel spoon with a little metal cup on the end. You fill it with the mix and when released it forms the perfect ball. We finally found it and I was overjoyed. Have I ever used it? No. It has languished at the back of the drawer from that day to this.
What would you call a collection of chopsticks? A Chinese of chopsticks? A handling of chopsticks. Or how about a sticky of chopsticks? We have an abundance of these, bought over the years in various China towns. They bring back memories of messy meals in noisy, crowded cafes in London, San Francisco, New York, Taipei and Beijing.
How about my three rolling pins. Why three you ask? A good question. There are four if you count the tiny wooden one I used myself as a child. I was about five when someone gave me a little baking set of which now only the rolling pin remains, beloved of each of our six grandchildren. They have all rolled pastry with it, cut out shapes of stars and gingerbread men. And as they roll we sing, “rolling rolling rolling” – the old TV theme tune from Rawhide. All families make their own traditions. And that’s one of ours! Of the other three rolling pins – one was my mum’s, one my mother in law’s and the other has always been mine. I wouldn’t be without it. Except when it, together with the others, gets stuck and I have to spend half an hour trying to ease the drawer open.
Here’s a small cellophane bag filled with brightly coloured plastic handles each with a sharp metal prong. These are for daintily holding your corn on the cob, one at each end. The idea is to stop your fingers getting all greasy and buttery. But that’s part of the fun, so consequently they remain in the drawer.
What in my drawer gets used the most? My collection of battered wooden spoons which sometimes get thrown out and replaced. So, yes, they are actually useful. Probably the most used utensil I own. Contrary to manufacturers’ advice they get put in the dishwasher so they seldom last long.
I once spent a fascinating half an hour with a friend who took me through every item in her kitchen drawer. And then, just like me, she put them all back because you never know when they might come in useful!
It was the trainer at her gym who suggested to Jenny that her long-time partner Tom might be having an affair.
“That’s crazy!” We’re barely ever out of each other’s sight. Where would he find the time? And who’s going to fancy him, aside from me?”
“These things happen. Maybe he met someone at work?”
At this Jenny laughed. “He’s working from home for goodness sake.”
Their conversation preyed on her mind.
Could Tom be having an affair? Was it possible? Yes, he was working from home. But she wasn’t. How did she know what he was up to when she wasn’t there?
The following evening while Tom was in the bath, Jenny had a peep at his phone. To her horror, she saw that he had been texting – or was it sexting – Anna of all people! Anna! Her best friend! How could she? How long had it been going on?
Jenny stared at the phone in disbelief. What should she do? Should she confront him?
“Hey Tom!” Jenny shouted through the bathroom door. “I’m popping out for a bit. I won’t be long.”
It was only a five minute drive to the Rose & Crown where her brother George was working.
“I’ll kill him,” snarled George, when he heard what she had to say. He had never liked Tom.
Jenny downed her second glass of wine. And her third. “Don’t be daft George. But what would you do if you were me? Should I say something or should I pretend I don’t know?”
The bar was emptying.
“Goodness, I had no idea it was this late. I told Tom I was only stepping out for a minute. I gotta go George, thanks for listening.”
Jenny stepped out into cold dark night. It was raining heavily.
The car started immediately. What with the rain and the tears streaming down her face it was hard to see where she was going.
Tom and Anna. Tom and Anna. The windscreen wipers seemed to be saying.
She was close to home now, just turning the corner of her street.
Tom and Anna. Tom and Anna.
Suddenly a figure loomed out of the dark right in front of her car. She tried to brake but the car seemed to have a mind of its own.
Jenny heard the thud and she also felt it.
What should she do? She should never have left the house. She should never have had that third glass of wine.
Jenny fumbled for the handle. She found she had to concentrate really hard in order to open the car door.
In the road, illuminated by the car lights, she saw a body. It was lying all crumpled up and still. Jenny could hardly breathe.
When she realised who it was, she gasped in shock.
Jackie twisted her body in front of the changing room mirror so she could see the back of the dress she was trying on.
“What do you think?” She gave a little twirl in front of her husband, Bob, who was waiting outside.
“Nice” he said. “It suits you.”
“Nice? It has to be more than nice! I’m the mother of the bride. It has to be stunning.”
“It’s not what I would call stunning.”
Jackie sighed. This must be about the fifth shop she had visited and probably the fifteenth outfit she had tried on.
Jackie spent the next day, and any free days after that, looking for the perfect dress. Finally, in desperation, she used the John Lewis service where a specially trained sales assistant brought garment after garment to her cubicle.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” she told Bob, who, this time, had sensibly remained at home.
Finally, it happened. The perfect dress. And it fitted her beautifully. Yes, it was somewhat more than she had intended to pay but this was, after all, her daughter’s wedding day.
Of course, things didn’t stop there. She then had to find a bag, a hat and shoes to match her outfit.
At last the day arrived.
As planned, Bob left home before her. He was to pick up their daughter Lindsay and they’d travel together into London. A separate wedding car collected Jackie. Now and again she checked her hair and make-up in the car’s mirror and was pleased with what she saw.
They were early. Jackie was ushered into a side room and waited to be called. After a while the door opened and in walked Lindsay. The sight of her in her wedding dress brought tears to Jackie’s eyes. The two women hugged carefully so as not to spoil their outfits.
Jackie still had memories of her own father hugging her so tightly on her wedding day that he had dislodged her tiara and it had been wonky for all the wedding photos. Nothing was going to spoil this day!
There was a tap on the door. It was Bob. “They’re ready for us.”
“I walk in with Lindsay and you walk behind us.”
Jackie felt nervous for the first time. Until now she’d not met Mark’s parents but Lindsay had assured her she would like them.
The music started up and the procession began. Bob, smiling proudly, took Lindsay’s arm and began to walk her down the aisle. All heads turned to see the bride.
Taking a deep breath Jackie followed into step behind them. Their guests smiled and nodded as she passed.
They were now only a few feet from where the best man was waiting, alongside the groom and his parents.
Jackie looked up. Then did a second take. It couldn’t be. But it was.
The groom’s mother was wearing the identical dress to hers. And there was no turning back.
I wrote this post four years ago at the start of lockdown.
I saw only one aeroplane yesterday. It’s so eerie seeing the sky empty of planes.
Not long before lockdown we had Extinction Rebellion telling the world to stop flying. Looks like we listened.
I have read that pollution levels are dropping more each day. Not just in the UK but in cities all over the world. And that this coronavirus crisis could trigger the largest ever annual fall in CO2 emissions, more than during any previous economic crisis or period of war. Ironically, since Covid-19 affects the lungs, those of us who are not infected are breathing more easily. Asthma sufferers are feeling better too. And we all know that we can now hear birdsong far more clearly. Not just at dawn but right through the day.
Last year OH (other half) and I did our bit for the environment. Instead of flying to France we made two long, relaxing train journeys from Kings Cross to Marseille. I say long but when you factor in the time you would normally spend getting to the airport, the time you spend in lines to check in your luggage and go through security, the time you spend hanging round at the airport waiting to board your flight – only to find that it has been delayed – then the train journey isn’t that much longer after all. And you arrive at your destination far less care worn and harassed.
In my advertising days I wrote press ads for Sealink Ferries. We used to say that your holiday began the minute you were on board. Train journeys are just the same. But not, alas, plane journeys. And now they’re telling us that if we are fortunate enough to get this lockdown relaxed and decide to fly abroad again that we will probably experience four hour waits at airports. Those of us who have used EasyJet won’t find the idea of four hour delays so unusual.
One of my early memories of flying was travelling to the States to meet my American relatives. I was 21. On the plane I was sat in-between an elderly woman (probably the age I am now!) with a weak bladder and a much younger woman who was heavily pregnant. They took turns throughout the flight in getting up to go to the loo and as a consequence I didn’t get any sleep.
Over the years OH and I have travelled extensively. One time we had been visiting the States with our two small sons in tow and bought loads of books to bring back to the UK.
At Kennedy Airport, when we checked in our luggage we found it was seriously overweight. We could not meet the extra cost they demanded we pay. What were we to do?
I’m speaking here of a time long before the kind of security we have today, when there was far greater freedom and barely any security at all at airports. But even in those far off days your luggage still had to adhere to the required weight.
Seeing our anxiety, the guy at the check-in desk suggested that we ask someone else to take the luggage on our behalf. Imagine doing that today! “Just find a lone businessman who isn’t carrying any luggage and see if he’ll take yours,” was his advice.
I approached every available guy who looked friendly. Some seeing a young woman approaching them looked just a little bit too friendly. “What have you got in there?” they would question, pointing to my baggage. “Drugs?”
“No just nappies” (diapers) I would say sweetly, “and a few books.” Eventually one kind guy took pity on us and checked in a case on our behalf.
However, when our plane landed at Heathrow it was met by a posse of security guards and we were escorted off the plane into a private area where we were cross examined. Our luggage was opened up and thoroughly checked before allowing us to continue with our onward journey. We still have many of those books – the Berenstein Bear stories are now a particular favourite with our grandchildren.
More recently, about eight years ago, we were travelling from Taiwan via San Francisco and thence on to Washington. First we had to go through immigration. Our man asked us the normal questions. Where were we going? What was the purpose of our visit? And so on. OH produced the required documents and showed them. Normally, when people see that OH works in cancer research they are really interested in his work and we have never had any problems. However, this time, the passport guy – whose name I remember was Michael Lee – frowned.
“I regret to tell you,” he said seriously, “that you will not be allowed into the United States of America.”
The earth could have swallowed us up we were so astonished. Rooted to the spot. Dumbstruck. Not allowed into America? Why? What on earth were we going to do?
But before we could say anything, the immigration official smiled and said, “April Fool!” Followed by, “You should see your faces!”
We had left Taiwan on April 1st – and here in San Francisco it was still April 1st. Who has ever heard of anyone in immigration making a joke – ever? We wondered afterwards if he had been saying it to all the people coming through or had just singled us out? We will never know.
Readers from outside the UK may not know of this well known programme which has been on the radio since 1942. You are asked to imagine that you are stranded on a desert island and to choose which eight pieces of music you would like to have with you – assuming you have something on which to play them! Over the years many famous people have given their choices and their explanations for them. From Marlene Dietrich to George Clooney.
During Lockdown my writers’ group asked us to imagine what music we would like to hear if we were stranded on a desert island. This was my choice. It would be interesting to know if you agree with it and/or what music you would choose. I have included links to all of the tracks. Please comment below and let me know what you think.
As Time Goes By – Dooley Wilson(from the film Casablanca)
Every couple has their song and this is ours. It is a film we have seen many times and get something new out of it each time we see it. It would remind me of my husband and all the great times we have had together in nearly fifty years of marriage.
Only the Lonely – Roy Orbison
This song reminds me of when I was around 13. My parents made me go to Maurice Jay Dance Classes and this was one of the few songs they played that made me actually want to dance. It was the year I discovered boys (and they me) and the year I got my first Valentine!
In My Life – The Beatles
I have always been a fan of the Beatles. The lyrics to this song move me as much now as they did when I first heard them in 1965.
Mozart Clarinet Quintet in A major, K581
This is my favourite piece of classical music. I find it incredibly soothing and relaxing. I first heard it when I saw the film, Le Bonheur in 1965. I went into our local record shop and asked if they had the soundtrack from Le Bonheur. Oh, they said, laughing, you mean the Clarinet Quintet by Mozart! That was my introduction to classical music and the start of a lifelong love of Mozart.
Leonard Cohen – Dance Me to the End of Love
This is a particularly beautiful, melodic and haunting Leonard Cohen song. I know many people choose it as their wedding song but, in reality, it is incredibly sad. According to Leonard Cohen, this song is actually about the musicians who were forced to play while the Jews in the concentration camps were herded into the gas chambers to their death.
Gymnopedie no 1 – Erik Satie
Our oldest son used to play this when he was learning the piano. I have a cassette tape which our three children made for me when they were little which they called, “Neidle Work”. It has all our children performing on it. This beautiful, calming music will remind me of my children when I am far away from them.
Somewhere over the Rainbow – Judy Garland
This is the original version, sung when she was in her 20s. I chose this because it is a song of hope for bleak times – whether it’s being isolated on a desert island or in your own home! It was composed by two Russian Jewish immigrants to the USA. “Yip” Harburg ( Isidore Hochberg) and Harold Arlen (Hyman Arluck). The song, which has become universal, was written to express their yearning for a better life.
I Threw it All Away– Bob Dylan (Nashville Skyline)
In this album something remarkable happened, Bob Dylan found his voice. He had had a motor bike accident in 1966 and took time out from working. I believe this was the first album he made afterwards in 1969. I love most of Bob Dylan’s music but in this album he actually sings quite tunefully! Oddly, his voice went back to its old rasping mumble afterwards.
If you could choose only one, which would you choose?
If I could choose just one, it would be the Mozart Clarinet Quintet because it would help keep me calm and relaxed.
What inanimate object would you like to have with you?
I’d choose an endless stack of paper and pencils so I could write and draw to my heart’s content.
Aside from the Bible and Shakespeare, what book would you like?
I would choose The Oxford Book of Children’s Poetry. (OUP, 2007) It would remind me of my six grandchildren as it includes a number of their favourite poems. Some of the poems are bound to be witty and that would cheer me up. I would try to learn as many as possible so I could recite them from memory.
A new writing challenge. We were asked to write a dialogue for a play. The opening line had to be, “why do you always do this?”
Here’s what I wrote. Let me know what you think.
SATURDAY NIGHT
Our play opens on two women standing at the open front door of their home. The younger woman, who is the older woman’s teenage daughter, Jenny, is on the front step, poised to leave. Jenny is wearing a low cut flimsy top, shorts and sandals. The older woman, her mother Ann, is standing inside the front door.
Jenny turns to look at her mother.
Jenny: (angry and upset) Why do you always do this?
Ann: Do what?
Jenny: You know full well, what! Whenever I’m about to go out on a date, you say something to make me miserable.
Ann: (with mock innocence) What did I say?
Jenny: You said, you’re not going out dressed like that, are you?
Ann: (defensive) Well, that’s not an awful thing to say.
Jenny: It is when I’m on the point of leaving the house.
Ann: (huffily) Well, I hadn’t seen you till now. You’re dressed as if it’s summer!
Jenny: Well, that’s why I don’t show you what I’m wearing. I don’t need your approval.
Ann: (protectively) You might feel cold dressed like that.
Jenny: I won’t because I’m going to be in a car.
Ann: A car? (snappily) Whose car? Who do you know who can drive?
Jenny: (proudly) Tom has a car.
Ann: Tom! Oh you’re not seeing that boy again!
Jenny: He’s not a boy. He’s 22.
Ann (scoffs) and the rest!
Jenny takes a step forward closer to her mother.
Jenny: What is it about him that you don’t like?
Ann: How long have you got? He’s not 22 for one thing.
Jenny: What are you talking about? A minute ago you called him a boy!
Ann: He doesn’t look 22. He looks a great deal older.
Jenny: (slyly) Maybe that’s why I fancy him.
Ann: And you’re still only 17.
Jenny: I’m not a baby mum. I can take of myself.
Ann: (softly) Like you did last time.
Jenny: (crossly) What’s that supposed to mean?
Ann: You know very well. You came home in tears. Remember?
Jenny: I wish I’d never told you. Anyhow, Tom is different.
Ann: If that’s what you think. (Her tone softens) Just take care that’s all.
Jenny: Isn’t dad a few years older than you?
Ann: A few, yes. Not ten years older.
Jenny: (crossly) You’re doing what you always do. Just as I’m on my way out.
You just don’t want me to have any fun. I think you’re jealous!
Ann: Jealous? (laughs) What?! Have you gone crazy?
Jenny: That’s what it is. All my friends agree with me. That you’re jealous.
Ann: (angrily) How dare you discuss me with your friends?
Jenny: None of their mums do what you do. Pick on their daughter’s clothes, who they’re seeing .. why can’t you just let me live my life the way I want?
Ann: (firmly) As long as you’re in our house, you’ll live by our rules.
Jenny: Huh! (mocking) Your rules! You just want to keep me locked up.
Ann: Don’t be silly!
Jenny: Yes. And in a chastity belt. With a big notice. Keep away from my daughter.
Ann: That’s so silly. I just want to look after you. You’re my little girl.
Jenny: (matter of factly) That’s just the point mum, I’m not your little girl anymore. I’m a grown woman. I don’t need or want you hovering over me all the time.
Ann: Is that what I do “hover”?
Jenny: Yeah. Can’t you leave me alone? Just for once let me go out for the evening without going for me.
Ann: So now I go for you. Well, go on out then. But don’t expect us to rescue you when you miss the last bus home.
Jenny (sighing exasperatedly) As I said, I’m getting a lift.
SFX: Mobile phone rings
Jenny reaches into her pocket for her phone and answers it.
Jenny: Hi. Yeah. Yes. I got held up. Am on my way now.
She hitches her bag on to her shoulder. Then turns and picks up a small rucksack that has been lying in the corner, unnoticed till now by her mum.
Jenny: I’m off.
Ann: (indicating the rucksack) What’s that?
Jenny: What does it look like? It’s my bag.
Ann: What do you need a bag like that for?
Jenny: You’re doing it again mum. It’s for my stuff.
Ann: Stuff?
Jenny: Overnight things.
SFX: We hear the toot of a car horn.
Jenny: See you tomorrow. Bye mum.
Jenny turns away and quickly runs off without a backward glance down the front path where a car is waiting for her outside the house. We don’t see it but we hear its engine.
Ann looks shell shocked. She closes the front door and collapses to the floor sobbing loudly as the curtain falls.
This month’s writing challenge was to write 950-1000 words on the topic of “The Gift”.
Here’s what I wrote:
FROM YOUR HEAD TO MINE.
The first time it happened I was only thirteen years old and still at school. There I was waiting for the bus and standing next to me was one of my teachers. Well, you can imagine how shocked I was to learn what she thought of me. I couldn’t possibly repeat it here! That said, knowing what your teachers, your peers, your friends and your parents think of you can be highly useful at times.
Once I was working, my gift, as I came to think of it, enabled me to be one step ahead of my colleagues all the time so I rose up the ranks very quickly. As you can imagine, I was very proud to be in the New Year Honours list, a few years ago.
I was fortunate enough to meet the late Queen and it was wonderful to know that she thought I had beautiful hair. She was also thinking how hungry she was and wondering what there was going to be for dinner.
Donald Trump was a curiosity as he never seemed to think about anything at all! Boris Johnson neither. Last time we met he was wondering what he was going to watch on telly that night and whether Carrie was going to be in a good mood or not. If I remember correctly he was thinking of his oats. Did he mean breakfast I wondered or something else?
During our children’s early years I was able to sort out any day to day problems before they became serious. I never needed to be one of those annoying mothers who are always intruding in their kids’ lives because I already knew what was going on. Whether it was a homework assignment or a new boyfriend, I never had to ask. And if one of the children was being bullied at school I could sort it out quickly before things became difficult. Having said that, it’s been a relief to know that neither of our two children have inherited my gift.
Of course, this gift of mine was great fun when I was young and single. I always knew if someone fancied me and was able to act on it, if I so chose to do so. When my late husband proposed it was no surprise as he had been thinking about it for months! In the end, I almost pre-empted it by asking him but I’m glad I waited. It was many years before I told him that I had always known what he was thinking. He didn’t seem to be that shocked. In all honesty, I’m not sure if he believed me but just put it down to female intuition. You may say that it would have been fairer and more honest to have told him at the outset. Aside from the fact that it would have been far too embarrassing, I also found it extremely useful and I’m sure our relationship benefited from it. I think I finally told him when it was our tenth wedding anniversary! Over a game of cards of all things! He’d never understood why I always won!
Sadly, in recent years so much of our lives have been spent online that I really miss the benefit of knowing what other people are thinking. I need to be in the same room as someone for it to be effective so Covid and working from home were a complete disaster! That well known saying, use it or lose it, comes to mind. I’d be devastated if it didn’t work for me anymore.
I’ve sometimes wished I had some kind of tuning device. It can be really tricky to follow when everyone is thinking stuff at the same time and then I have to muddle my way through a jumble of thoughts. It’s hard to cut through the crap, as they say.
It probably won’t surprise you to know that so many people are simply thinking about themselves – how do I look, will s/he notice me, I’m bored, I’m hungry, what time can I leave without it seeming impolite – that sort of thing. Even when I met the kind of people whom we all imagine to be great thinkers, it was often disappointing.
Over the years I’ve occasionally been asked who were the greatest thinkers I’ve ever met. Surprisingly they’re not the obvious choices. Maybe David Bowie and John Lennon from the 20th century. And Simon Schama and Rachel Reeves from the 21st. There’s a surprise for you. I don’t suppose many people thought she’d become PM or that the Labour Party would be in power for so long.
Jesus Christ, John Kennedy and Shakespeare are at the top of my list of the people whose thoughts I would like to have known.
You’ve met many great statesmen and women, interviewers ask, what would you say was your most important or significant moment? I tell them what they would like to hear but in reality it was being at my mother’s bedside when she was dying. She could no longer speak but she could still hear – did you know that hearing is the last sense to go? I was able to tell her how much she meant to me, how much I loved her. And I was also able to know how much she thought of me and how proud she was of all I have achieved.
Now here I am in hospital myself and on a geriatric ward. My brain is probably the only part of me that’s still active but sadly that won’t be for much longer. And I’d rather not know what the doctors and nurses here think of me!
By the time you get to read this I won’t be here anymore, but I would love to have known what you thought of it.
Thatcher, Wilson, Brown, Johnson. All such very English surnames.
What about that quintessential Englishman and film star Leslie Howard? His original name was Leslie Steiner. So why the name change?
Pre-war, if you wanted to succeed on stage or in the movies (or anywhere really) you wouldn’t be able to do so if you had a Jewish sounding name. With all the antisemitism that existed one of the first things a Jewish actor did was to reinvent himself or herself.
Hands up if you knew that Lauren Bacall was once Betty Joan Perske? Or that Laurence Harvey was born Laruschka Mischa Skikne?
Pretty understandable why a would-be actor with the name of Issur Danielovitch Demsky would want to change his name to Kirk Douglas.
And then there’s Gene Wilder – Jerome Silberman. Harry Houdini – Erich Weisz. Tony Curtis – Bernie Schwartz. Natalie Portman – Natalie Hershlag. And countless others. Who knew, for example, that Des O’Connor, the comedian, was Jewish?
On the other hand we have Whoopi Goldberg who isn’t Jewish. Her original name was Caryn Johnson. Whoopi changed her surname because her mother said that she would be more likely to succeed in Hollywood with a Jewish sounding surname! How ironic is that!
Today, of course, it’s OK to have a foreign sounding surname and many of today’s Jewish celebrities have kept their original names. For example, Rachel Weisz, Jerry Seinfeld, Lisa Kudrow and Ben Stiller.
It wasn’t just in the field of acting that Jewish people felt the need to change their names.
My late father, the writer R. L. Finn was born Hyman Feinman.
One day at his East End school, in the absence of the teacher, all the Jewish boys in the class wrote on the board the English name they would give themselves when they grew up. My father chose the name Ralph Leslie Finn. I imagine because he thought they were quintessentially English names. Ralph was maybe after the actor Ralph Richardson. And Leslie after Leslie Howard. My dad, like so many people, probably did not realise that Leslie Howard was himself actually Jewish!
However, Feinman was not our original name. In fact, I don’t actually know our family’s name!
The story goes that my grandfather came to London ahead of his family to find a job and home for them. When my grandmother arrived as an immigrant at the London Docks, along with her parents (my great grandparents) and her firstborn child (my dad came along more than a decade later) she was asked for the family name. She did not speak any English so showed them the letter she had received from my grandfather which said that he had found them all somewhere to live. The letter was written in Yiddish and said something along the lines of: “Ich bin ein feinman.” I am now a fine man. The officials took this as meaning that the family name was Feinman so that’s what we were known as from then on!
Nearly every Jewish family has an apocryphal story of how their name evolved. If your surname was something incredibly unpronounceable and unspellable the chaps at the docks would just say – OK you’re Levy, you’re Cohen and so on.
On the other hand my married name, Neidle, is almost the original name. The name is unusual and the few Neidles in the UK are almost all members of our family. OH (other half) is into genealogy and has checked out the family name. Where his father’s family originally came from there were once many Neidles – or Nudel as it was then. The name literally means needle (!) but is translated as tailor. My late father-in-law’s parents came from two villages in what was for a time Poland, but are now in the Ukraine. He visited his relatives there in 1937 and passed on to us an evocative photographic record of the family at that time. Sadly, almost every one of them perished in the Holocaust.
On a happier note, let me tell you about my late father’s brother, my Uncle Ben who spelt his surname Fynn. Uncle Ben had a beautiful voice and became an opera singer. He was the principal tenor of Sadler’s Wells and the Carl Rosa Opera companies. When he began recording it was suggested that he change his name to something more Italian so he became … Benvenuto Finelli!
Benvenuto Finelli (aka Ben Fynn aka Bennett Feinman or Finerman) 1910-1987
Ralph Leslie Finn (aka Hyman Feinman/Finerman/Fineman aka my dad) 1912-1999
I wrote the post below in July, 2021 and feel it is vital to share it again – particularly as today – the 27th January 2024 – is Holocaust Memorial Day.
It is even more important now after the shocking atrocities that took place in Israel on October 7th 2023 when Hamas terrorists and their supporters not only brutally murdered innocent men, women, children and babies in their homes but also raped, dismembered, brutalised, murdered and burnt alive young peace-loving people and their families, many of whom were friends and supporters of the people living in Gaza.And the fate of the 132 hostages still held by Hamas in Gaza is unknown.
What’s more, the subsequent “pro-Palestinian” marches which we have been seeing every weekend on our streets in central London have left many British Jews feeling isolated and fearful – many of whom now feel they have to hide their Jewish identity. This, in Britain, in 2024.
After the Holocaust we said, “Never Again”. What can we say now?
A survey conducted in 2021, and reported in The Guardian newspaper, said that over half of the people living in Britain did not know that 6 million Jewish people were murdered during the Holocaust. 67 % of UK respondents wrongly believed that the British government allowed all or some immigration, when in fact it shut the door to Jewish immigration at the outbreak of the Second World War.
76% had not heard of the Kindertransport, an initiative that was set up between 1938 and 1939 to rescue nearly 10,000 refugee Jewish children and bring them to Britain. Sadly, this initiative did not include their parents, most of whom were murdered in the concentration camps (see map below).
In addition, nearly two thirds of young adults in the United States were also unaware that 6 million Jewish men, women and children were murdered in the Holocaust. Indeed, the Washington Post reported similar statistics in 2018 – that two thirds of millennials didn’t know what the Holocaust was!
It seems that Holocaust Education is sadly lacking in this country. I believe it is meant to be part of our School Curriculum, but clearly it is not being taught as well as it might. That could go in some way to explain the huge surge in hatred of Jews and the appalling wave of antisemitism that happens in this country every time there is any kind of conflict in Israel.
In the summer of 2022 OH (my other half) and I were on vacation in Windermere, in the Lake District.
We saw a sign which aroused our curiosity. It read, “From Auschwitz to Ambleside”. We discovered that an exhibition was being held at Windermere library which concerned the Windermere Boys, a group of Jewish children who were brought to Windermere in 1945. Unfortunately for us, the exhibition was not open for more tours until the following week.
Those of you who saw the TV documentary, The Windermere Boys and the follow up documentary where the survivors, now adults, were interviewed, will know that 300 Jewish children who had miraculously survived concentration camps, were brought to Windermere in 1945.
Having seen the documentary on TV, we were very keen to see this exhibition but we were leaving Windermere the next day. I sent an email to the museum asking if there was any possibility of our seeing it. We did not require a tour, I wrote, but could wander around on our own. To my surprise I received a reply shortly afterwards saying that the museum could be opened up for us at 11am the following day.
The following morning, an unassuming man met us on the doorstep of the museum and let us in. He spoke knowledgeably about the exhibition and then left us to wander round on our own.
There were photographs of “the boys” – although some of them were girls! News clippings from the time told how the children had been housed on what had been the site of aircraft workers’ homes – the Calgarth Estate. They were looked after by a Rabbi, a doctor, nurses, teachers and child welfare officers. The plan was to eventually find them permanent homes as none of their parents could be traced and were presumed dead.
It was only later on our way home, when reading a pamphlet we had bought at the exhibition, that we realised that the unassuming man who had kindly opened up the library for us was none other than Trevor Avery, the man who had been the impetus behind the exhibition and both TV documentaries.
It all began in 2005 when he was at an exhibition concerning the factory where the Short Sunderland “Flying Boat”, the largest aircraft of its time, had been built. There was a photo of the Calgarth Estate, where the workers had been housed, on display. Trevor Avery happened to hear a chance remark, “Of course, you know, this is where the children from Auschwitz came ….”
Other than the locals, no one had known about this as it had been kept out of the press at the time. Avery made contact with the Jewish children who had been brought to the Lake District and talked to members of the local community who remembered them. He then set about documenting these stories and was instrumental in founding the Lake District Holocaust Project. The survivors still return to the Lake District for reunions and several of them have shared their experiences of the Holocaust with local schoolchildren.
In 2016 Avery was awarded the British Empire Medal (BEM) for Services to Heritage in the Lake District. Without his painstaking research and inspirational work in reuniting the Windermere children, none of us would ever have known their remarkable story. We were privileged to meet him.
The next day, moved by what I had seen and learnt, I wrote this poem:
The Children of Windermere
Do you know the story of Windermere?
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear.
300 children in 45
All of them lucky to be alive
They’d witnessed terror, murder and hate
And were given refuge on the Calgarth Estate
A beautiful place, tranquil and calm
Was the setting for those
Who had suffered such harm.
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear.
Some of them were as young as three
How they survived just baffles me
What they only suffered, what they’d only seen
Can’t be imagined, it’s far too obscene.
The Windermere children were all united
Hoping one day to be reunited
With siblings, parents and all they loved dear
And meanwhile they lived in Windermere.
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear.
Here they were safe to run free and play
Escaping the hell they’d left far away.
They were nurtured, comforted, schooled and fed
And began to heal from the lives they’d led.
The nightmares they had, began to recede
They were children again
From that life they’d been freed.
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear.
By the side of the Lakes
They flourished and grew
Began to plan for a future too
They learned to live
And live without fear
The 300 children of Windermere.
Those children grew up
And moved away
Had children of their own one day
Yet they still tell their story today.
Yes, the children grew up
And made lives of their own
But they never forgot their Windermere home.
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear.
Written after a visit to the “From Auschwitz to Ambleside”
Exhibition at the Windermere Museum
24/7/2021
READ THIS ARTICE ABOUT WHEN PRINCE CHARLES (NOW KING CHARLES) MET SOME HOLOCAUST SURVIVORS AND ALSO WATCH THE VIDEO.
If you have read this far, I also strongly recommend you see the recently released film, “One Life” about the late Sir Nicholas Winton who, with what came to be known as The Kindertransport, rescued 669 mostly Jewish children, many of whose parents were subsequently murdered in Auschwitz concentration camp.
As Kyle sang in South Park: “It’s hard to be a Jew at Christmas.”
Growing up, Christmas to me always felt like I was looking into a toy shop or sweet shop window at things I couldn’t have.
I enjoyed the Christmas parties and the festivities – still do – but, being Jewish, I always felt like the outsider at the party.
At home, growing up, we neither celebrated Xmas nor Chanukah, the Jewish festival of lights, which takes place around the same time. Father Christmas didn’t visit Jewish children and my parents treated Christmas just like any other day.
When I had children of my own, not wanting them to feel left out, OH (other half) and I experimented briefly with Christmas. We left out mince pies at bedtime and crumbs on the plates when they awoke.
Our children had pillowcases rather than stockings which we filled with goodies. I would stash these away until Christmas Eve. One year our six year old son found my hiding place. He marked all the things he’d found with a felt tip pen so, when they later turned up in his pillowcase, he was able to prove once and for all that Santa did not exist!
As our children grew older, Chanukah replaced Christmas. So our kids wouldn’t feel left out we gave them a gift every day. Something special at the beginning or the end and small presents in-between such as you might put in a stocking. As Chanukah lasts eight days it more than compensated for Christmas!
Each night of Chanukah we light a candle on the special eight branched candlestick known as the Chanukiah or the Chanukah menorah. At the end of the eight days all eight candles are lit. Actually nine – because there is an extra candle on the Chanukah menorah that’s used to light all the others.
There are Chanukah parties, songs, games and special Chanukah foods such as donuts and latkas. A spinning top – “the dreidel” is spun. Raisins are won or lost depending on where it lands.
Our son, when he was seven, wrote a poem about Chanukah:
“How I love to go to bed with the candles shining in my head.
And when I have dreams, how lovely Chanukah seems.”
He’s now a father himself. Each year, until Covid 2020, he and his wife have made a Chanukah party for their children, friends and family. The story of Chanukah is told and acted out with costumes, arts and crafts.
In fact, you could say that we enjoy the best of both worlds!
A few years ago I discovered a wonderful poem, “High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, Junior.
I came across it at the Battle of Britain Museum at Bentley Priory in Stanmore, Middlesex.
This terrific museum is well worth a visit. Not only for the amazing story it tells of the Battle of Britain but also because it is a stunning building in its own right, set within equally stunning grounds.
The poet John Gillespie Magee, Jr was a pilot serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force. His father was American and his mother was English.
In July 1941 he was sent to England for combat duty. That same year he composed this poem and sent a copy to his parents, a few months before he died.
On December 11, 1941 his Spitfire collided with another plane over England.
Magee, who was only nineteen years old, crashed to his death.
His poem, “High Flight” is the official poem of the Royal Canadian Air Force and also the Royal Air Force.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, –and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air…
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Poem by John Gillespie Magee, Jr, 1922-11 December 1941
Choose a work of art and write a story about it in 450-500 words.
Here’s what I wrote.
OVERHEARD IN THE BAR
I was sitting at the bar like always.
This chap was staring at me and I gave him the eye right back. I let him buy me a drink or two. One thing led to another and before I knew it he was escorting me out of the door – well carrying me more like. And we didn’t walk anywhere. Not he. He held up his arm and a cab pulled up just like that.
I fancied him alright but I’ve also got to earn my living. We went back to his home. And what a place he had. I’ve never seen anything like that apartment of his. It was more like a house. So many rooms. Pictures on every wall. Beautiful damask curtains and brocades. The carpets were so thick I was almost too scared to walk for fear of spoiling them with me shoes.
And then this guy, Edward was his name, drew me a bath. Steaming hot fragrant water. Flowers everywhere. Even in the bathroom. Oh and such fluffy white towels.
And the bed. Such fine sheets. You know I could’ve fallen asleep straight away but of course I had to thank him first didn’t I for his hospitality.
Then this morning his manservant – well of course he would have one wouldn’t he – made me coffee and served me the most delicious, freshest croissants I have ever tasted.
Then Ed dropped a bombshell. He told me he was an artist. I didn’t know what he meant at first. He paints pictures, he said and he would like to paint mine. He told me he had this idea that he’d been playing around with for some time. He wanted to paint the portraits of a group of friends sitting on the grass. But he wanted this picture to be different from all the normal portraits. Everyone, he said, was going to be dressed except for one. Me. He wanted me to be in his picture and he wanted me to be naked! I thought he was joking at first. I want to defy convention he said. I want to shock people. And this picture, he said, would hang in the finest galleries in France and all over the world.
Will you do it for me, he said. Well, after all he’d done for me, how could I say no?
And I did it. We all went to the park at lunchtime with a picnic. I undressed and sat there quite calmly with my feet in his friend’s lap.
By way of a thank you Edward said he’s going to treat me to dinner out every Saturday night for a year. I could hardly say no to that, could I?
Ed said he’s going to work on the painting in his studio over the next few weeks. I’m happy to play along though I can’t imagine anyone else ever wanting to see it – can you?
Seven years ago today, on 7 November 2016, Leonard Cohen died.
I wrote this poem after seeing him perform at The Wembley Arena on his last concert tour in the UK. It is called Tower of Song after his song of the same name.
This week the writing prompt was the word, “green”. Here’s what I wrote.
50 shades of green
It was our first time in Disneyland, California. I was about 7 months pregnant with our third child.
We arrived early before the queues. It was a long time ago, before the delights of Google and TripAdvisor so we did not have a clue as to what to expect.
In the distance we saw something called The Space Mountain and aimed for that. Our boys, after all, were interested in space exploration.
We were on the access slope when my shoulder was tapped by one of the attendants. “Hey mam, you can’t go on this, not in that condition.” So, disappointed I turned round and went back down. On my way I noticed signs I had not seen on the way up. Not suitable for people with a heart condition or high blood pressure, one said. Another, not for pregnant women. Another, children must be at least 112cm in height. Our two boys, aged four and a half, and seven years old had disappeared from sight.
It was only then that I realised that it must be some kind of roller coaster ride. I reassured myself, they’re with their dad. They’ll be alright. I sat down on a nearby bench, patted my bump and waited. It was quite a while before they re-emerged. The boys’ faces looked a pale shade of green.
My other half sat down shaken. “Never again,” he moaned. “I feel dreadful.” His face had turned a sickly shade of green. “I swear we were turned upside down. I thought my glasses were going to fall off!”
The boys seemed shaken but OK. And quite proud of themselves for having survived the experience.
After that we only went on all the safe, family friendly rides.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all remember the first few years of our lives? After all, these are the years – we are told – that form us, shape us into the people we become.
Now I have grandchildren I sometimes wonder how much they will remember of the happy times we have together. Nothing special. Just the everyday things. Sharing a story. Playing hide and seek. Cuddles. Bath time. Bed time.
I wrote this next poem when I was a new mother. Every parent has done this. Watched their child sleeping.
The same feeling still comes over me when I hold our fabulous new grandson who was born less than three weeks ago.
The years are swept away and I remember this poem I wrote a lifetime ago.
…………………………………………
I watch my son asleep in bed.
What dreams can he be dreaming
the little sleepyhead?
I want to build a wall around his cot
Shield him from the world
Instead I tuck his blankets tight
And kiss my sleeping child goodnight.
I first posted this 12 years ago. The grandchild I mention celebrated his 12th birthday yesterday!As for my son in the poem, he now has two children of his own!
The theme for this prompt was, “The Crossing”. You may have seen my other poem on this theme which concerned my mother’s brothers making the crossing from England to the land where the streets were thought to be paved with gold – the United States of America. (From the East End of London to Ellis Island.)
This poem looks at a different aspect. The more obvious one of road safety.
Although a serious subject I attempted to write this with a light touch and some humour along the lines of the kind of poems written by the satirist Hilaire Belloc in his Cautionary Tales for Children. (1907) Someone in my writers’ group (watfordwriters.org) thought that this too might be suitable for children. Let me know what you think.
We’ve all heard of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Today is “Cousins Day” when we’re all encouraged to recognise the relationships we have with our cousins! I dedicate this poem to all my cousins in America!
It is also the day that Watford Writers (watfordwriters.org) meets on Zoom to agree who has won this week’s poetry competition. The theme was, “The Crossing” which led me to write this poem.
Back in 2009, the episode where the boys gatecrash a girl’s party (series 1) was actually filmed in our house! Having your entire home taken over by a film crew and cast is quite something! I’ll let the photos tell the story.
When I used to tell people I worked as a copywriter they’d say, don’t you get tired copying all that writing? 🙂
My first copy job was at an advertising agency where my main client was Hepworths Menswear. I wrote the scripts for deejay Pete Murray’s Radio Luxembourg show. The playlist would be sent to me in advance of the recording and my task was to write ads appropriate for whatever disc was being played. For example, if it was, say, the Beatles’ song “Help”, I would say something like, “Help! I’m looking for a suit” – except it was never that easy or straightforward. I would write, in effect, a short story. Pete Murray would read the script I’d written while the record was playing and then act it out using whatever dialect was necessary. One minute he would be James Bond and the next Raymond Chandler, depending on what I’d written for him. It was great fun for me, a 19 year old, to be sitting inside a Radio Luxembourg studio. Pete Murray was thoroughly decent, immensely talented and great to work with. A real professional.
At that time the only way to increase your salary was to change jobs so I moved on to another agency where I could get experience writing for TV. My first ad was a 7 second commercial which opened on a black screen. A whistle blows and we see the steam of a kettle as someone pours a cup of tea. The voice over says, “Isn’t it time you woke up to a Goblin Teasmade?”
I moved on to writing commercials for McVitie’s biscuits. At one memorable shoot we had a magician producing doves from his hat. He then had to appear distracted because he was enjoying the biscuit so much. Unfortunately, he really did become distracted! The birds started flying round the studio and crapping everywhere. It wasn’t funny at the time.
When I was out of work I sold Avon Cosmetics, going from door to door. Ding dong Avon calling! We didn’t just sell the stuff, we also ordered, packaged, wrapped and delivered. By the time I’d bought the samples needed for product demos, there wasn’t much money left. I discovered that if I wore an Avon perfume, the customer would often admire the fragrance and that would sometimes help me make a sale.
My greatest claim to fame was that I came up with the idea for the Cadbury’s Milk Tray campaign when I was still a junior copywriter. I then lost my job because my boss claimed the idea and used it further her own career. Sadly, you cannot copyright an idea. Such is the life of a copywriter. Ironic that it should be called copywriting!
I moved on to yet another agency. But came back from my honeymoon only to discover another woman sitting at my desk. She had long blonde hair and legs going up to her armpits. I don’t know if she was any great shakes as a writer but I could see why she had got the job!
When I returned to work after having three children, I moved into teaching. But that’s another story.
As a teenager this would always happen to me if I was with a boy or a group of friends at a swimming pool.
They’d count my toes. Then count again, not believing what they were seeing.
I was born with the little toe on each foot crossing over the toe next to it. It was never a problem until I needed to wear something other than school shoes. At the age of six when I was a bridesmaid I was unable to wear silver pumps or ballet shoes and ended up having to wear a clumpy pair of Clarks white sandals. This really upset the other bridesmaid because it meant that she had to wear them too.
My parents took me to visit a number of orthopaedic specialists and were told that, although the toes weren’t causing me any pain at the time, that it could lead to pain in future years. I would, they were told, never be able to wear high heels.
In the end it was advised that I should have my little toes amputated. I was 11 and still at junior school when I was admitted to hospital for the operation. We had recently moved to a new area and I had only just started at my new school. It was a local hospital and there was no children’s ward. I was the only child on a large orthopaedic ward of adult women.
Even though the surgery was only going to be on my baby toes, come the day of the operation my legs were shaved from ankle to knee. It was a cottage hospital and I remember being wheeled outside over bumpy ground until we came to the operating theatre. The next thing I recall is waking up in my hospital bed with a gowned surgeon bending over me. I remember asking him, what have you done with my toes? We pickled them and gave them to the worms, was his reply. My legs were encased in bandages and there was a kind of cage over the bed so that the bedding would not touch my legs. I still felt as if I had my toes – I was sure I could wriggle them – and found it hard to believe they were no longer there.
I was the only child on the ward and the other patients all made a great fuss of me. When they discovered I could write poetry I was asked to make up rhymes to order. Tell us a poem about the doctor they would say. Nurses. Hospitals. Flowers. And I would make up something there and then without needing to write it down. They loved anything as long as it rhymed and made them laugh.
I would play tunes on my descant recorder in bed – and no one seemed to mind – although it must have been annoying.
The occupational therapist would come round and encourage me to weave baskets – although how that would help my feet I couldn’t understand. Once the worst of the bandages had been removed the physiotherapist would encourage me to try to pick up pencils with my remaining toes – a trick I can still perform to this day.
At first I was in a wheelchair. It had a hole in the middle of the seat so it could be wheeled right into the bathroom and then right across the toilet – such a clever idea as long as one didn’t have the need to remove any clothes.
Visitors were barely allowed. I can remember my parents visiting only once or twice. Fortunately, the women on the ward all mothered me so I didn’t feel the loss.
My junior school had arranged for some of the children to send me get well notes. Among them, to my delight was a long chatty letter from a girl I barely knew. It was written in pen and ink with drawings that were remarkable for someone of our young age. Well written and witty with incredibly well illustrated observations of my life and hers. Later in life I saw the letters Tolkien had written to children and was reminded of these wonderful letters that so cheered me up at the time. As a result of her letter that 11 year old girl and I began a friendship which continued right through our schooldays and beyond.
I gradually learned to walk again. At first, just from one bed to another and eventually I was able to walk across to the lavatory without the need of a wheelchair. I would visit the women stuck in bed and I particularly remember seeing the polio patients in their iron lungs. When the weather was fine they would be wheeled outside to benefit from what little sunshine there was. I realised how fortunate I was. I may have lost two toes but some of these young people would never walk again.
Once home I convalesced lying on the sofa, listening to the tapes from my older brother’s collection of rock and roll he’d recorded from the radio. Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, the Everly Brothers – music that still resonates with me to this day.
Back at school the news leaked out about my toes and I came in for a lot of questioning and teasing but it soon passed.
Throughout my life I’ve been fortunate in that I’ve never experienced corns, calluses or bunions and have never had problems with painful feet. I’ve always been careful in my choice of shoes but it hasn’t stopped me from being able to wear high heels, though nowadays you are more likely to see me wearing trainers. I recently read that some women today are crazily choosing to have their little toes removed so that they can continue to wear high heels! It’s amazing what some people will do to keep up with fashion.
If I ever want to distract my grandchildren I ask them, how many toes do you think I have? Would you like to count them? And their answer is always, yes!
Yesterday I received an email from the Yad Vashem UK Foundation concerning the death of Sir Ben Helfgott MBE (1929-2023) z’l.
Sir Ben Helfgott was one of the “Windermere Boys” – child survivors of the Holocaust who were brought to the UK at the end of the war.
You may remember seeing my poem about the Windermere children – I have included it at the end of this blog. But first I would like to share with you the tribute from Yad Vashem so you can read about the life and work of this remarkable man. Despite all that he had suffered, he went on to enrich the lives of others throughout his lifetime. May his memory be for a blessing.
“Yad Vashem UK were saddened to hear of the loss of our inspirational friend, Holocaust survivor, educator, Olympic champion and Honorary President Sir Ben Helfgott MBE.
Born in Piotrkow in central Poland in 1929, he was raised in a strongly Jewish community by his father Moshe, who ran a flour mill and his mother Sara, who ran the home. He had two younger sisters, Mala and Lusia. During the Holocaust he survived unimaginable horrors in the Piotrkow ghetto, Buchenwald, Schlieben and Theresienstadt, Czechoslovakia, where he learnt that his father had been shot trying to escape a death march. He cried for 24 hours. “My father was my hero. He risked his life smuggling large quantities of flour into the ghetto. Sometimes we didn’t hear from him for a day or two. And my mother begged him not to go. People were being shot. Even today the pain of his loss is as great as ever because he had so much to live for”.
By the end of the war both his parents and his sister Lusia had been murdered by the Nazis. After liberation he came to England as one of ‘The Boys’-732 child survivors of the Holocaust. These children made long lasting relationships from their rehabilitation time in the Calgarth estate in the village of Troutbeck, near Windermere. He was eventually reunited with his sister Mala in 1947, and they would remain close for the rest of their lives.
Ben went on to become a Great Britain weightlifting champion, representing Britain at two Olympics (1956 and 1960), winning a bronze medal in the 1956 Melbourne Games. He also won Bronze in the 1958 Commonwealth Games, and won three gold medals at the Maccabiah Games. Dedicated to his sport and totally committed, he refused to let his past determine his future achievements. In 1963, after retiring from the British weightlifting team at the 1960 Olympics, which he had captained, he established the 45 Aid Society-a group with the aim of supporting Holocaust survivors who had fallen on hard times. He campaigned for many worthy causes and was determined to educate future generations about the horrors and lessons of the Holocaust.
He was a devoted husband to Arza, a pharmacist, who survives him with their three sons, Maurice, Michael and Nathan- and a much-loved grandfather, who knew so well the importance of family. His beloved sister Mala also survives him.
We at Yad Vashem UK are proud that his legacy and memory will forever be preserved for future generations by the National Portrait Gallery’s sculpture of Sir Ben by Frances Segelman, which we helped to arrange. Our thoughts are with his family at this very sad time. May his memory be a blessing for all who had the privilege of knowing and learning from him.”
Photo and tribute are from the Yad Vashem UK Foundation.
THE CHILDREN OF WINDERMERE
Do you know the story of Windermere?
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear
300 children in 45
All of them lucky to be alive
They’d witnessed terror, murder and hate
And were given refuge on the Calgarth Estate
A beautiful place, tranquil and calm
Was the setting for those
Who had suffered such harm
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear
Some of them were as young as three
How they survived just baffles me
What they only suffered, what they’d only seen
Can’t be imagined, it’s far too obscene
The Windermere children were all united
Hoping one day to be reunited
With siblings, parents and all they loved dear
And meanwhile they lived in Windermere
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear
Here they were safe to run free and play
Escaping the hell they’d left far away
They were nurtured, comforted, schooled and fed
And began to heal from the lives they’d led
The nightmares they had, began to recede
They were children again
From that life they’d been freed
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear
By the side of the Lakes
They flourished and grew
Began to plan for a future too
They learned to live
And live without fear
The 300 children of Windermere
Those children grew up
And moved away
Had children of their own one day
Yet they still tell their story today
Yes, the children grew up
And made lives of their own
But they never forgot their Windermere home
Windermere, Windermere
If you would listen, come and hear
How love and kindness can conquer fear
Written after a visit to the “From Auschwitz to Ambleside”
Our EasyJet plane had landed at Nice at past 10 at night. We hadn’t eaten so decided to drive into Cannes for a meal. At 11pm Cannes was still lively and buzzy and all the restaurants were still open.
We noticed that everywhere was even busier than usual and it dawned on us that the Cannes Film Festival was on. For fun we thought we’d wander along to the Croisette and have a look for ourselves. We’d never been in Cannes at Festival time so this would be a new experience for us.
The streets were throbbing with people, many of them walking in the road as there were barriers to stop most cars from coming through. What was surprising was how many people were dressed for the occasion even though they were just ordinary punters hoping for a glimpse of their favourite celebrities.
We managed to get through the crowds and found ourselves standing near the red carpet. Hot and dishevelled from travelling, we felt quite self-conscious amongst all the glamorous people around us.
A few feet from us there was a posse of paparazzi (how’s that for a collective noun of photographers?) all looking our way. All of a sudden they turned at one in our direction and made towards us. I looked around to see who they might be targeting and then realised that it was my other half that they were after! They came towards us and then like a group of synchronized dancers they all simultaneously zoomed off at right angles. Phew! Clearly they had mistaken him for someone else. George Clooney? I don’t think so. Maybe Stephen Spielberg? They do wear similar spectacles! We will never know. However, our brief millisecond of fame was quite alarming and I can’t begin to imagine what life must be like for those people who actually live their lives in the spotlight.
A few minutes later we were approached by a young couple who offered us free entry to one of that night’s films. It seemed they had tickets they couldn’t use. It was for a Japanese film showing at 2am.
We accepted the tickets – it seemed churlish not to – but 2am? Really? It was already well past midnight. We hadn’t yet been to our apartment and our suitcases were still in the car. What’s more, we were beginning to feel tired.
Down in the street below, punters were still hustling for free entry. Every time anyone who was anyone climbed up those famous red carpeted stairs, people were shouting and clamouring, holding their arms up in the air and trying to get attention. Now and then their cries of, “over here, me, me” were rewarded with tickets! This, we realised, was why we had seen people so glamorously attired. How could we possibly enter dressed as we were in jeans and tatty tee shirts – even if we did have tickets? And a Japanese film? Not really our style. We decided to leave and threaded our way through what was a now a diminishing crowd back towards our car.
We later found out that the film, Shoplifters, which the Guardian headline described as “the unfancied Japanese film” had won the prestigious Palme D’Or!
If it weren’t for the gates and the crowds it could be any London street.
But Downing St is no ordinary street. And number 10 is no ordinary house. It vies with the White House as the most important political building anywhere in the world in modern times. For the past 275 years, many of the most important decisions affecting Britain have been taken behind its front door. And some of the most famous political figures of modern history have lived and worked at Number 10.
In addition to being the official residence of the British Prime Minister it’s also the PM’s office and the place where the Prime Minister entertains guests from British Royalty to presidents of the United States and other world leaders.
The façade is deceptive. When you see the front door on TV news you imagine a small town house but in reality it’s much larger than it appears.
In the early 18th century number 10 was joined to a more spacious and elegant building behind it. It’s also taken over much of number 12 which is reached by a corridor that runs through number 11- the official residence of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
I actually experienced the inside of 10 Downing Street in 2015 when we were invited on a private tour. It was the summer vacation and number 10 was being cleaned.
We were shown all the public rooms, not the PM’s own rooms or his office but virtually everywhere else.
The public rooms, used for entertaining dignitaries, are the height of opulence. Chandeliers, fine art, porcelain, elegant furniture and the kind of carpets you might see in stately homes.
The walls of the spiral staircase are adorned with framed photographs of all the Prime Ministers down through the years. On the ground floor one can see group pictures of all the different PMs with their cabinets from the past to the present, complete with everyone’s autographs.
The highlight of our tour was seeing the cabinet room, its table covered with a green baize cloth. One chair was not pushed in but kept at an angle and that, we were told, is where the prime minister always sits. In another room, similar in size but grander, we saw the long table that’s used for ministerial banquets.
Afterwards, to our amusement, when we walked back down the street and out through the gates we were photographed by tourists who clearly thought we must have been special visitors. And for a while we had felt that we were.
It’s said that everyone remembers the birth of their first child. Ours is etched in my memory.
Janice had gone to bed early. There I was watching “The Great Escape” when there was a piercing scream from upstairs followed by a loud thump.
“Johnny!” I heard her yell. “I need you!” I leapt upstairs.
There was Janice, lying in a pool of water.
“My waters have broken.” She was sobbing.
“Phone Joan the midwife! Get her to come NOW!”
I tried to calm her down.
“But you’re not due yet.”
“Please Johnny.”
So I did, only to be told that Joan was out and would get back to me. There were no mobile phones back then. We were stuck. And Janice was literally stuck on the bed. I tried to move the wet sheet from under her, but she just screamed at me.
“Johnny, I think the baby’s coming!”
I panicked then, I can tell you. I was desperately trying to remember what they’d said at the hospital. Something about keeping calm and not panicking!
“Keep calm,” I said, in my best soothing voice.
She screamed back at me, “I am calm!”
The phone rang. It was the midwife and I managed to gabble what had happened. “Stay calm,” she said.
“Aaarghhh!” yelled Janice.
“I’m not going to be able to get there. Have you seen outside?”
I glanced out of the window. Snow!
“Have you timed her contractions?”
“They’re coming frequently,” I replied, as Janice yelled again, this time with a supressed grunt.
“If it’s happening this fast, it’ll be fine.”
I don’t know who was breathing more rapidly, me or Janice. She had starting panting like a dog on a hot day.
“Aargh!” screamed Janice. “It’s coming!”
Between her legs I could see this pale lump. The baby’s head!
Joan was reassuring. “No need to do anything. Just support the head with your hands as it comes out.”
There was a wounded animal cry from Janice as more of the baby’s head appeared.
“Pant!” urged the midwife.
“Pant!” I shouted.
Janice panted. And then in a moment, it was all over. Our son slid out between Janice’s legs.
“Now lift baby onto your wife’s tummy.”
Janice reached down to touch our son. Was he alive?
Then the magic moment when he cried. We were crying too.
“You’re amazing,” I told her. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Don’t touch the cord.” The midwife was still there on the phone. “Cover your wife and child. An ambulance is on its way.”
Janice had put our boy to her breast. His little toes were curled up in ecstasy.
“Hello son,” she whispered, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.”
And do you know, he opened his eyes and looked right at her.
There was a ring at the door.
“Congratulations!” The ambulance man beamed. “What’s his name?”
“Noah.” We both said it together.
“Ah,” smiled the ambulance guy, surveying the soaking wet bed.
The writers’ group I attend set the task of writing 450-500 words on the topic of, “A tight situation”.
I brainstormed various ideas of difficult situations and came up with this idea. Hope you enjoy reading it. Please feel free to comment below and let me know what you think.
CORONATION
The bells of Westminster Abbey tolled the hour.
“It is time.” said someone sombrely.
In the ensuing silence there was a loud yell.
“Shit!”
“Mum”, whispered Tom, “they’ll hear you on TV.”
“This is a disaster. I’ve laddered my stockings! What am I going to do?”
She nudged the young woman next to her.
“Kate, have you got a spare pair of tights on you?”
Kate silently shook her head and put her finger to her lips as the TV cameras swung towards them.
“Oh heck,” muttered Camilla, “what the hell shall I do?”
She looked around furtively. No one appeared to be watching. A quick fumble under her skirt and she had unfastened the stockings from her suspender belt. Thank goodness she still wore them – so much easier to get off. At least, that’s what Charles had always said.
“Quick,” she whispered to Kate, “pass me your tights!”
“That’s crazy! We can’t swap tights!”
“Of course not!”
Kate looked relieved.
“I’ll wear yours and you can go bare legged. You’re young enough to get away with it. No one will notice. But I can’t appear in front of the cameras with a huge ladder for all the world to see.”
Kate sighed.
“I can’t take them off here. We’ll have to go to the ladies’ room.”
“OK. You go first.”
Kate was seated at the end so it was easy for her to slip away. A few minutes later she was back, with the tights balled up in her hand.”
“Here you go.”
“You’re a star.” Camilla smiled.
“Be quick. It’s nearly time.”
Camilla didn’t want to draw attention to herself, so she sidled along, smiling benignly at people who nodded to her as she made her way to the back of the Abbey. But where was the loo? She started to panic. It was no good, she would have to nip outside and do the deed hidden around the corner.
With minutes to spare, she saw the sign. Ladies. At least it wasn’t gender neutral! She crept into a stall and quickly put the tights on. Thank goodness they fitted.
The clock struck two followed by a loud fanfare.
Kate was looking around and at the same time trying to remain the serene and smiling Kate the world knew and loved.
“Don’t panic, I’m back!” Camilla smiled at Kate with relief. “All done. And just in time. The procession is about to begin.”
………………………………………………………………..
Breakfast the following morning was a very quiet affair since Charles had stopped speaking to her.
The most momentous day of his life and nothing had been written about him! Not a sausage.
Instead, there was page after page of photos of Camilla and Kate. And to top it all, there was a close-up of Camilla unfastening her suspender and several pictures of a bare legged Kate in the photo line-up.
As for the headline, it read: “A tight situation for King Charles 3rd!”
In 2015 we were fortunate to be given a private tour of Number 10 Downing Street.
Much like Dr Who’s Tardis, it’s a great deal bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside!
As you will see from these photos, many of the public rooms are quite opulent. Note, for example, the chandeliers in the room where the Cabinet meets.
The cabinet room – sharpened pencils at each place! Mrs Thatcher had her own special corner. Her portrait still hangs on the wall over the fireplace.The famous staircase along which you can see portraits of all the past prime ministersPortraits of Queen Elizabeth II by the photographer David BaileyWhere visiting dignitaries are entertainedSomewhere to relax with guestsThe Banqueting RoomNote the portrait of Queen Elizabeth 1st over the fireplaceA gift from rescued Brazilian minersRecent photo of the Queen by David Bailey – and a Tracy Emin over the doorParticles of moon rock
There are a number of gifts on display, including particles of moon rock from the first moon landing. And, in the same room as portraits of our late Queen, a neon sign created by Tracy Emin.
Unauthorized use of any of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner, Andrea Neidle, is strictly prohibited.
There was once a prince who lived in the most beautiful palace. Everyone loved him.
But was he happy? No.
Nobody loves me, he said.
There was only one person whom he had ever truly loved, but she died.
And he cried bitter tears. Not just for her. But for himself.
Where his tears had fallen flowers grew and soon the palace was surrounded by thousands of flowers, all with messages declaring love for the prince.
But was he happy? No.
Nobody loves me, he said mournfully.
The prince grew up and had many friends and colleagues who cared about him. Countless women fell in and out of love with him.
But was he happy? No.
Then the prince fell deeply in love with a beautiful woman and for a while he was happy. But his new love told him that he was not happy and that his life was not worth living. So the two of them agreed to leave everything and everyone he knew to start a new life for themselves.
But was he happy? No.
Nobody loves me, was his mantra. He took every opportunity to tell people how he felt. Eventually he told his father, I don’t want to be a prince any more.
That’s fine with me, said his dad, but then you can no longer live in a palace. We will still call you prince but you can no longer expect to have all the good things that go with the title.
The prince moved to a new country far away where he had a beautiful house, servants, two beautiful children and everything his heart desired. But was he happy? No.
He started to take pills and other drugs hoping they would make him happy.
The prince complained to anyone in the world who would listen that his father had been cruel, that his wicked stepmother hated him and that his family, whom he had chosen to leave, did not want him.
Everyone he met wanted to hear what he had to say about his old life compared to the new one.
I was not happy, he said. No one listened to me, he said. Everyone wanted a piece of me, he said.
Advisors told him, you must tell the world how you feel, how you have been mistreated.
And so he did.
He gave interviews to the newspapers, appeared on TV and even blogged – with some help and encouragement from his beautiful wife – on his very own web site.
But still he was not happy.
So he wrote a book which everyone read. It sold millions of copies all over the world and made the prince even richer than he had ever been before. But not any happier.
I would like to be able to tell you that this is a mere fairy tale. But, sadly, it is all true.
And it looks like the prince is going to live unhappily ever after.
Today is Holocaust Memorial Day. I recently watched a very powerful documentary on BBC4 TV. It was called, "The US and the Holocaust".
I believe it is still available in the UK on iPlayer. There are three episodes, each two hours long. I urge you to watch it even if you think, as I did, that you know all there is to know about the subject.
I’d also like to share with you this poem I wrote last year.
THIS CANDLE
This candle I light because we are without power. I nurse our new born son in the dark.
This candle I light because it is my birthday. Make a secret wish. Don’t tell a soul or else it won’t come true.
This candle I light just for fun. And because I like its fragrance.
This candle I light for romance. Candlelight is flattering in the dark.
This candle I light in a student bedsit and listen to the gravelly voice of Bob Dylan for the very first time.
This candle I light in a village church asking for prayers for someone gravely ill. I’ve never done this before.
This candle I light is a centre piece at our first born’s wedding feast.
This candle I light at the opera in Verona. A giant amphitheatre lit by a thousand candles glowing in the dark.
This candle I light to light all the other candles on the eight branched Chanukah menorah that belonged to my mother.
This candle I light to welcome in the Sabbath. We break bread, drink wine and count our blessings.
This candle I light in memory of a loved one on the anniversary of their passing.
This candle I light to remember all the loved ones we have lost during Covid.
This candle I light for all the dead souls of Ukraine. May their memory be a blessing.
This candle I light is a symbol of love and peace and hope and grief and remembrance.
This candle I light as a Memorial for the 6 million men, women and children who were murdered in the Holocaust just for being Jewish.
Are you enjoying reading my poetry? If so, you might like to buy a signed copy of my poetry book, Wonderland. It contains many of the poems I have blogged and also some you haven’t seen before. If you live in the UK, the cost is £5.00 plus £1.50 postage. If you are one of my followers from overseas, please contact me in the comment box below. Let me know where in the world you live and I will let you know the cost of postage and packing.
A recent task in my writers’ group was to write a story on “The Key”. Was this going to be about the key to success, a hidden key, a music key, a key to hidden treasure? I racked my brains to try and come up with something original. Here’s what I wrote.
Freedom
Kila lifted her hand up to the door again. Nothing.
She shook her head perplexed. Why wasn’t the door opening? This had never happened before.
When the Ministry of Security and Home Affairs had first mooted the idea of integrated keys there had been an outcry.
What next will they want to embed in our skin, people had asked. But, as with the notion of vaccine passports, back in 2021, everyone had soon got used to the idea. And who nowadays used an old fashioned key?
Kila rubbed her hand and tried the door again.
What was she going to do? Without her palm key she wouldn’t be able to activate anything. How was she going to make phone calls, write, bank, show her health record, her ID? This was the stuff of nightmares.
She looked around in case anyone she knew was passing.
“Kila!” It was Alik reaching out a friendly elbow in greeting.
“Alik! Am I pleased to see you!” She smiled happily at her neighbour and elbowed him back.
Alik wasn’t smiling.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“My key’s no longer working,” he said.
“That’s odd,” she responded, “neither is mine. What do you think is going on?”
“So you haven’t heard the news?”
Kila shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s been some kind of security lapse. None of the palm keys are working. Not just yours and mine. But everyone’s.”
Kila’s eyes widened in amazement.
“But that’s crazy. How are we going to do anything? The whole system will breakdown! It’s like they had back in the old days with the internet. What are we going to do?”
“We’re marching” announced Alik. “We’re marching on the Ministry. Listen!”
Kila listened and for the first time could hear the shouts of an angry mob.
She could just about make out the words, “freedom from the key” being repeated over and over again.
“But I don’t want freedom from the key. I like my palm key. It gives me freedom to do everything I want to do.”
“But it gives them control over us,” answered Alik. “We want freedom from control.”
Now Kila could hear the mob chanting, “Freedom from control. Freedom from control!”
Alik elbowed her again.
“Come with us Kila. Join the protest.”
Kila stepped back.
“I can’t Alik. Keys give us freedom. You must see that.”
Alik scowled. “Keys belong to our colonial past.”
Kila shook her head and elbowed him away.
“NO!”
“Kila – wake up! Happy birthday my darling! 21 today!”
Her mother was leaning over her. She was laughing and dangling something in her face. A large silvery beribboned cardboard key.
“Happy 21st birthday! Today you get the key of the door! That’s what we used to say when I was young. But it’s all change now. The Prime Minister was on TV just before announcing a new idea. They’re going to impregnate keys into your hand. Can you imagine! Whatever will they think of next?”
My Life in Poems 