Rabbi's Lament

I must admit, at seven I was not the angelic, docile child that my 8 year old brother Stanley was. In fact, it was a source of aggravation for me that I always had the clothes that Stanley grew out of, while he (with a smirk) got the new suit and all the other accessories. All I received were his hand-me-downs. As the youngest of four, (two girls and two boys) I felt that I always came last when any goodies came our way.

My father insisted that all religion was organised to keep the working class under control. So although all the rest of my mother’s family were obeying Jewish Law, my father ignored this totally and forbade his sons to go to ‘Cheder’. This was a school for Jewish children to learn Hebrew. I always thought that he forced this rule because he was too mean to pay the Rabbi his 2/- a week for the tuition.

The Rabbi’s relied on this small amount to supplement his sparse income; and woe betide any student that could not progress in the study. The Rabbi had permission to beat the student if he did not learn fluent Hebrew during the period before his Bar mitzvah. So my brother and I did not protest too much about Dad’s rule.

There was an amazing freedom for working class children to roam wherever they wanted. As most of the East End of London was solidly Jewish, my mother let me roam the streets, never worrying about my safety. I was not aware of any of the perceived dangers that youngsters of today experience.

I used to go out on my own and enjoyed my independence. The only trouble was that I had very little money to spend. My father in his generosity allowed me a halfpenny a day spending money…and that did not change until I was 14. Even then the rise was only one penny!

One day I noticed a boy from my school (Settle Street School) who was about a year younger than me.

When I asked him where he was going, he answered that he was going to ‘Cheder’ to learn Hebrew. Clutched in his hand, was a two shilling piece, which was the fee due to the Rabbi. He told me he was not too keen to go to the class as he had had a beating last week. So I gently suggested that we take a bus to the West End of London, and see the sights. With the 2/- we were rich.

Morris, as that was his name, told me I should be the Treasurer and left all the decisions to me.

As soon as the bus arrived at Piccadilly Circus, we stopped outside a superb sweet shop and went mad by spending 3d each!

We spent almost all day roaming and getting to know the West End and by the time we returned to the East End we only had 3p left. It was nearly getting dark when we got home and I felt I had gained a superb friend and I am sure the Morris felt the same.

We arranged to meet again the following week for some further adventures.

This wonderful period of my life in London continued for an additional three weeks. We both felt like princes with money to spend. The sweet shop owner got to know us very well.

One day, however just after our third period of opulence, Morris’ father met the Rabbi in the street who enquired why Morris had given up on his studies.

The secret was out and so was our friendship. I think the Rabbi was paid in full, but I am sure that poor Morris’ posterior must have suffered too.