Footnote to a Dream

FOOTNOTE

TO

A DREAM

An autobiography by

Published by Shalva Publications at Smashwords

Copyright 2002 / 2013 Benny Michel

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Cover design: Benny Michel

First printed edition published 2002 by:

Benny Michel, 201 Bretton Woods, Killarney, Johannesburg.

Table of Contents

Prelude

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Curtain Call

Addendum

I have written my autobiography as it was - and still is for me.

My very sincere thanks to my wife Becky for having been my patient sounding board, Sam Pogorelsky for revitalising my fading ambitions and to the many people who, directly or indirectly, helped write my wrongs.

It is virtually impossible to translate idiomatic Yiddish expressions effectively, and equally difficult to transliterate them. However, I have tried to approximate the pronunciation as closely as possible.

While I have disguised the identities of some people mentioned, all the events are true.

Benny Michel

Johannesburg 2002

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY

OF MY BELOVED MOTHER

REIZEL MICHEL

CHAPTER ONE

My mother told me that when the time came for me to be born, she was placed on the back of a wooden fuhr (horse-drawn cart) and driven some fifty kilometres from her home, in the obscure Lithuanian village of Bogoslaviskis, to the comparative metropolis of Vilkamir, which at least boasted a nursing home of sorts. She said that it was an interminably long, uncomfortable journey for her, and that the bumpy tracks exacerbated the pains of my impending emergence. Early winter rains and intermittent snows had turned the earth into a quagmire, and the horse’s heavy, laboured breath as it tugged its load, turned to mist with every exhalation.

At one point, a wheel of the cart struck a jutting rock, throwing my mother from the cart, and leaving her helpless in the slushy mud, shivering with cold. My father and zaidah (grandfather) gently lifted her up onto the cart again. They ensured her safety for the remainder of the journey by wrapping her in a blanket which was then tied to the sides of the cart. Her uterus had contracted temporarily, but thankfully this subsided. In pitch darkness, the weary horse and cart bearing its human load eventually arrived at the nursing home where my mother was promptly taken in out of the cold into the hospital and prepared for my birth.

I emerged into the world on Monday 1st October 1923, healthy and perfectly formed with an olive complexion and thick, black hair that was long enough to be combed. I weighed in at fourteen pounds.

My mother’s beautiful, soft face was framed by long, straight, dark hair that continued down the small of her back where it fanned out below her waist. Because I was such a large baby she required considerable post-birth stitching, but she was a fairly buxom, strong woman and her wounds soon healed. Several days later, exercising great care and cherishing the precious product of their love, my parents joyously cradled me in their arms as we travelled back to Bogoslaviskis.

Lithuania is situated between Poland, Latvia and Russia, on the Baltic Sea. Climate makes it a cruel land for both man and beast, yet it is endowed with nature’s bounty in the form of fertile forests, abundant lakes and fruitful agricultural fields. High mountain ranges and the scenic lakes make it a country of contrasts and spectacular scenery. Severe winters last for most of the year, and metres of deep snow often isolates much of the countryside. Summers are equally extreme, with intense heat that was said to drive dogs, deer, rabbits and other animals to insanity.

Bogoslaviskis, a dot on the map of eastern Lithuania, was a typical shteteleh (little village) of the time, inhabited by Jews, Gypsies and Gentiles. There were approximately fifty Jewish families who had been deprived of their properties and assets by the tsarist regime. These were people caught up in the political strife of the time which tore asunder nations and families. Most of the inhabitants were illiterate, unsophisticated peasants. Life was tough and the inhabitants were resigned to their deeply religious yet strangely contented struggle for survival. Poverty was an accepted way of life.

The village was a predominantly grey place, almost devoid of vegetation. Electricity, tarred roads, water-borne sewage, communications and other modern basic amenities were non-existent. My first recollection is of the broonim, a centrally situated well which was closely surrounded by small, decrepit houses. Water was drawn from the well by tying a long rope to a bucket and lowering it deep into the bowels of the earth. After the bucket had been hauled up to the surface, the water was poured into various utensils and carried home. This served as the village’s plumbing system. Weekly flea-markets were held around the well, and gossip and news were exchanged. This squalid, drab area served as the community social centre.

My zaidah’s modest house contained only life’s barest necessities. In the front was his shop, which could loosely be termed a general dealer’s store, and behind this were the living quarters. The main comfort was a large hearth where everyone, including the family’s chickens, ducks, goats, cats and dogs huddled for warmth during the freezing winters. My zaidah - whose name was Motl Berzack - and my bobbah (grandmother) named Chava, shared the house with my mother and father, plus my mother’s four sisters, Breinkeh, Gitkeh, Rifkeh and Yentkeh, their brother Gedalia... and now me. This was to be my home for the first four years of my life, and the conditions there would provide an ideal setting for what fate had in store.

Unaware of all that, my parents returned with me to Bogoslaviskis, and hearty mazeltovs (congratulations) were the order of the day.

Jewish religion decrees that all male infants be circumcised at the age of eight days. The shul (synagogue) where Rabbi Berel Lipschitz carried out his duties was basically a converted barn. Of necessity, he was also the local jack-of-all religious trades and, considering the unhygienic conditions he worked under, with hindsight I have to believe that the good Lord was probably his ally in warding-off diseases and infections.

Non-Jews were excluded from attending the ceremony, and although as a woman my mother was barred from witnessing the actual surgical procedure, nothing quietened her sympathetic moaning. When the circumcision was over, the women joined their men-folk inside the shul, where I was named Baruch (blessed). After I had been proudly exhibited by my father, everyone partook of modest snacks and toasted me with my zaidah’s home-made wine while exclaiming, "L ’Chayim! (To life!)" With celebrations aside, the household reverted to its normal routines. When I was not asleep in my vigaleh (cradle) my mother strapped me onto her back and went about her household chores.

Shroll-Idel Michelewitz, my father, was born on the 10th December, 1899, in the village of Obeliai (known as Abell in Yiddish). About fifty kilometres east of Bogoslaviskis, it was larger than the latter and served as a siding on the main railway line to Russia.

My father had four brothers: Itzik-Yudel, Meishe-Meyer, Nachmen-Chone and Simmen-Yossel. There was also a sister, Rifkah, who had died at the age of seven. Being strictly religious, the sons were given two names each. My paternal grandfather, Michol-Velve, and grandmother, Nechame-Sheineh, were fanatically pious people who welcomed every opportunity that came along to fast, which they did every Monday and Thursday, plus all other fast days that were spread throughout the Jewish calendar year. When not fasting they ran a successful dairy farming enterprise.

Since early childhood, and later as a student at the yeshiva (seminary), my father had constantly worn his tzitzis (fringed garments), and every morning had attended shul where he would don his tallis and yarmulke (prayer-shawl and skull-cap) and lay tephillin (phylacteries).

My father was a handsome figure of a man. Tall and muscular, with spine straight as a ramrod, he walked with the pride and gait of a peacock. In his late teens he was conscripted into the Lithuanian army and compelled to serve two years’ military service. Insurgents would often attach a bomb to a cat, then tie the animal by a short lead to a strategic railway line, where the approaching train would cause the doomed feline to panic and activate the bomb. Once, whilst my father was in transit, his train was de-railed in this manner, and he, along with other survivors, was taken deep into Russian territory and imprisoned.

Eleven months later, having survived a bout of the dreaded Typhus, he escaped and headed back to his barracks in Bogoslaviskis. But some enemy soldiers intercepted him at the Lithuanian border, and he was interrogated, given fifty lashes, beaten up and left for dead. Luckily he was found by passing peasants who helped smuggle him back to Bogoslaviskis where he was hospitalised.

My mother, Reizel Berzack, was born in Bogoslaviskis on the 8th August, 1903. In her teens she often did voluntary work at the local military hospital, and it was there that she first met my father. While she was nursing him back to health, they fell in love and subsequently married.

My parents loved each other very passionately and were perfectly matched both physically and mentally. Their life revolved around their simple little family unit and with determination they set about establishing a good Jewish home - basically this was all they could strive for because there were not many other options open to them.

Jews were only permitted to work as tailors, barbers, shoemakers, street-cleaners, shopkeepers and garbage collectors. Having served his apprenticeship well, my father was now a fully-fledged master tailor and a room in the rear of my zaidah’s house was converted into a work-room for him.

When I was a month old and because mine had been a natural birth, another religious ritual, the pidjon ha Ben (redemption of the firstborn) took place. At the simcha (celebration) of this second ceremony my father was to hand the priest coins equivalent to the biblical sum of five shekels of silver, which was meant to redeem me from my obligation to the Kohanim (Priests of the Temple). This ceremony was duly held and all the Jews in the village flocked to shul for a little joyous diversion from their daily, mundane routines.

I had now gained weight, my green-coloured eyes radiated against a tan-coloured skin and an infectious smile often lit up my face. Being a rather large baby, people often mistook me to be older than I really was. My mother regularly bound me in a white swaddling-cloth from my neck downwards, particularly when taking me out-doors or wherever I’d be exposed to public gaze. Stemming from an age-old belief, this custom was supposed to drive away evil spirits and protect children from being cursed by an evil eye, referred to in Yiddish as an ayin hora. This superstition sprang from a deeply ingrained fear of tragic misfortune against which everyone took great precautions

One day, when I was nine weeks old, my mother laid me, bound from neck to toe, in my pram and ventured out for a walk. A little way on she stopped to greet a Gypsy from a nearby village who was also pushing her baby in a pram. My mother’s enquiries revealed that the woman’s child was not doing very well. Glaring down at me, the Gypsy said: I wish I could exchange babies with you. Yours is big and healthy, and mine is so tiny and sickly.

For what seemed an age, as if transmitting invisible rays, the woman’s eyes stared fiercely down into mine. The atmosphere became uneasy, so, sensing the Gypsy’s burning jealousy and hatred, my mother brushed her gently aside and went on her way. She was, however, deeply troubled by feelings of impending disaster, so she did not go very far before returning home. Strange premonitions kept gnawing away at her.

Later, having put me to sleep by rocking my cradle while she sang me the Yiddish lullaby, "Schloff mine ingelle schloff (Sleep my little boy, sleep)", she heard me whimpering. My voice sounded strange to her and she rushed to my cradle to find me crying and squirming convulsively. My face was distorted and I lay choking in vomit. My entire body seemed to be burning up with a fierce fever. My cheeks were flushed and wet with perspiration, my hair clung to my scalp, my breathing heavy and erratic. My mother’s worst fears were confirmed - the Gypsy had cast an ayin hora on me.

As soon as my father heard the news, he consulted with the rabbi who gathered a minyan (quorum of ten men) at the shul where they prayed for God’s mercy to spare my life. Meanwhile Zaidah Motl had summoned the district nurse, and Breinkeh went off to Vilkamir to fetch the doctor while Gedalia was given the task of finding the Gypsy woman in the slim hope that she might exorcise the ayin hora’s spell. His search was to no avail.

Not for a moment did my mother leave my bedside. Her body was racked with sobs. If only her tears could somehow lift the spell! Her heavy sighs mingled with the soft spluttering of the candles in the shadowy room. My clouded eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling and gradually my cries waned to an occasional whimper. When my mother tried pressing her nipples to my lips I didn’t respond because I had sunk into a coma. My temperature continued to rise and periodically my body would writhe in convulsive fits. In despair she kept moaning, "Der taivel iz sein gekoomen avek-tzunemmen mine kiend. (The devil has already come to take away my child.)"

When the doctor eventually arrived, he was puzzled by my condition. Other than that my temperature was in the region of one-hundred-and-five degrees, he made no diagnosis, and only advised my mother to wipe my face and body with a tepid cloth and to take me to the doctors in Vilkamir for further examination. But Rabbi Berel Lipschitz fulfilled what Jewish folklore required by performing the shloggen kaporres. This consisted of rotating a live chicken above a sick person’s head while chanting passages from the Talmud (the primary source of Jewish religious law), to exorcise an ayin hora. Arrayed in tallis and yarmulke, he held the chicken in his hands and repeated the age-old ritual every three hours.

This was not enough for my father. Pious people believed that a person’s name was related to his soul and that if his name were changed during grave illness, it altered his life-force and added new dimensions to his being. In the hope that this Cabbalistic ritual would save my life, he again gathered a minyan and prayers were recited followed by a special formula whereby Labe (Lion) was officially added to my existing name.

It took three days and nights for the fever to burn itself out, during which time my parents maintained constant vigil at my bedside. On the fourth day, the illness swung around as dramatically as it had started. My breathing stabilised, my temperature returned to normal, the perspiration subsided, colour returned to my cheeks and I cried lustily again.

The crisis was over - the demon had gone.

I was now ten weeks old and thriving once again. My mother loved cuddling me and took to humming a traditional Yiddish song aptly entitled, "Vos iz geven, iz geven, iz mer nishtoh. (What once was, was and is now no more.)" She felt that she could safely venture out again since it appeared that the Gypsy woman had vanished. Wrapping me in the swaddling-cloth she headed for a nearby forest that surrounded a large lake whose frozen water was darkened by the shadows of towering trees. She loved the tranquillity of the place. But once there she somehow felt on edge, so didn’t stay long.

While retracing her steps she spotted the Gypsy woman walking a short distance ahead. At first she hesitated, but the bitterness within her quickly gained control and she left me and gave chase. The Gypsy became aware of her and began running, but spurred on by anger, my mother closed in and narrowed the gap. She was just about to claw her when the Gypsy reached up, grabbed an overhead branch, pulled herself up and kicked her legs backwards. Her feet struck my mother’s chest with a blow that knocked her to the ground. Dazed, frustrated and gasping for breath, she staggered back to me, while the Gypsy disappeared from sight.

After regaining her composure my mother wheeled me home and tended to her bruises. Then she started unwinding my swaddling-cloth. I was naked, chortling and gurgling - but to her horror she noticed that my right leg lay motionless. When she shook it, it still lay lifeless. She lifted it high and released it, but it simply dropped back again. Grasping the ankle she found that my foot flopped from side to side. She bent my knee back and it remained static. She repeated the procedures with the same negative results. She started shaking with fear. Then she glanced at my left leg and noticed that the ankle pointed straight ahead like a ballet-dancer’s. She shrieked at the top of her voice for my father to come and see.

As far as she was concerned, what she had dreaded had become a reality -the ayin hora had wreaked its evil after all. My father tried calming her but she’d become hysterical, her large frame trembling with anguish. She kept wringing her hands while rocking her head back and forth. She’d borne a healthy child but the ayin hora had made it imperfect. Since I had been an extension of her body, it was also a blow to her ego.

Other members of the family had come running into the room. They lifted her off the floor, where she was huddled, and sat her on a chair to apply a wet towel to her face. Still she sobbed, and muttered desperately,

"Mine orremer ingalleh! Farvos binstu azoi geshtroffed gevorren? (My poor little boy! Why have you been punished so?)"

Removing the tailor’s measuring-tape from around his neck, my father slowly lifted me high up in the air. When the family saw my right leg dangling like a limp rag they stared in disbelief and exclaimed,

"Oi Gevald! (Woe is us!)"

Lowering me to his chest, my father walked towards the hearth and stood there with me for a while. Sadness and helplessness hung over the house. Despite the wisdom of his years, Zaidah Motl shrugged his shoulders and philosophically proclaimed, Mernisht vi Gott ken em yitst helfen! (Only God can now help him!)

Eventually my father turned and began walking with a sense of determination. He passed through the doorway of the house and headed straight towards the shul. There he stood humbly in front of the Holy Ark, swaying in silent prayer as he continued to hold me tenderly in his arms.

At the age of one year I should have been taking my first steps, but for me it wasn’t possible. Only by humping my body along the floor like a caterpillar could I manage to propel myself around the house. In accordance with Jewish Law and Tradition, it was forbidden to cut or trim a child’s hair until he turned three. Mine was silky pitch-black, and when it was shoulder-length I could have been taken for a pretty girl. Free from pain and as yet unaware of my disability, I was a happy baby. I was the first-born child, the focus of great interest and attention.

The time came to visit the doctor in Vilkamir, so my father hitched the horse up to the cart, loaded it with provisions, and we set off. My mother held me securely on her lap in case I fidgeted and fell off. Near Vilkamir the cart got bogged down in the mud. The horse’s legs splayed out and he dragged the cart onto its side and we all landed in the cold slush. After ascertaining that I hadn’t been harmed, my parents looked up at each other and started laughing. Caked with mud, we eventually arrived at the doctor’s waiting rooms.

Babba Michelewitz! the doctor said in impeccable Lithuanian, When your son turns three, take him to Vilnius for further examination and assessment, because here in Vilkamir we can’t really do very much for him.

After his bleak advice we returned to Bogoslaviskis in dejected silence. Apart from my inability to walk, my bodily development was normal. When not carried or wheeled around, I still managed to get around on my own, sometimes by the crude but effective method of rolling sideways like a rugby ball. Another way of propelling myself was to sit on the floor and use my arms to raise my body clear, and then swing my torso back and forth like a pendulum until I had gained sufficient momentum to throw myself forward in a kind of leap-frog jump. To aid my crawling, I grew long fingernails so that I could also claw the ground or floor.

All that I have related thus far was told to me by my mother. I shall continue to draw substantially on her stories for another few chapters, but from now on my own memory comes increasingly into focus. One memory of mine among many is of being taken by Zaidah Motl on his cart, sitting on his lap and holding the horse’s reins while we rode to inspect his vast lands. He would feed me sweet green plums picked from his orchard, or give me bon-bon sucking sweets, which he had put aside for me. The Bolsheviks later confiscated his assets, and, until they eventually murdered him, he became a street jester doing dance-routines for alms.

My parents grasped at any and every chance of a cure for my affliction, and there was no shortage of either remedies or suggestions. In desperation, they tried potions, brews, remedies and rituals, even some emanating from witchcraft and other such sources.

One old-wives’ tale recommended that my mother fill a bottle with water taken from the lake and then with her left arm outstretched, point it motionlessly towards the setting sun for ten minutes. Thereafter she was to put in a three-inch length of red thread, wait for it to sink to the bottom of the bottle, then splash the miracle water onto my legs and massage it well in until the skin dried to a red glow. Lastly, she was to smear the wet thread with jam and tie it onto my big toe. The dumb exercise proved futile.

Another mediaeval remedy entailed laying me flat on my back in the yard and smearing my legs with syrup to attract ants. Eventually, what seemed a full colony of ants made my legs look as if they’d been painted with tar, and what started off as mild tickling became unbearable itching. Screaming, almost driven insane, I had to be held down. Thereafter a coarse rope was tied around my torso and I was suspended from an overhanging tree-branch, because the belief was that the wind would blow away any remaining impurities. Each ant-treatment lasted the best part of a day and my skin became so sensitized that even while I lay sleeping, my body continued convulsively jerking and I often fell out of my bed.

The next wondrous cure was a concoction of ripe, poisonous berries mixed with fresh dog’s blood that was poured into a bowl and stirred until it attained a glutinous consistency. In the belief that my bones’ impurities would be drawn out through my toes, my feet up to my ankles were immersed in this muck for hours on end. But all it did was stain and harden my skin, which began to resemble an octogenarian’s wrinkled forehead.

Another procedure I was subjected to was called bunkess, which entailed dipping about ten small glass bowls into methylated spirits and igniting them. One at a time, while still burning, the bowls were firmly pressed onto my legs so that lack of oxygen extinguished the flames and created a vacuum which sucked the bowls deep into the skin. An hour or so later, they were pried loose with a knife. Instead of removing whatever supposedly ailed me, they had no effect other than to leave round, red welts that were painful and extremely itchy.

An especially horrific, bizarre cure entailed throwing newborn kittens into a large copper pot filled with boiling water. When the water frothed it formed a thick scum that was then rubbed onto my legs. The pitiful squealing upset everyone to such an extent that my mother was not prepared to pursue this cruel barbarism, and soon abandoned it. Sadly, the sacrificed kittens brought me no improvement whatsoever.

Yet another repulsive, mediaeval remedy involved piafkes (leeches). These clinging, slimy parasitic worms were placed along the veins of my legs so that they would suck out my supposedly bad blood. After they had gorged themselves and fallen off, my mother threw them into an old tin pot and pulverised them to a bloody paste of gooey consistency, which she then rubbed onto my skin. But once again, the attempt at healing was useless.

All the efforts amounted to nothing more than a futile waste of time.

I was now almost three years old and my visit to Dr Polnoska in Vilnius was due, so early one morning, my mother hitched up the horse to the cart and tied me firmly to the cart’s wooden bench. Due to work commitments, but mainly due to lack of money, my father remained behind. My mother took up the reins and we set off. At the nearby village of Shavel she stabled the horse in a friend’s barn and we then boarded the train for the three-hour journey.

Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, is a city that then boasted more than a hundred thousand inhabitants. Tall, greyish-coloured buildings circled large open parks, flowers and evergreen pine-trees peeped through the snow, and elegant crowds wearing warm winter coats and heavy leather boots thronged the streets. The opulence, in such contrast to what she knew in Bogoslaviskis, added to the ache in my mother’s heart.

Transport from the station to a modest hotel near the doctor’s rooms was by a konkeh, a horse-drawn tram that rode on steel rails. His hooves clicking on the cobblestones, the magnificent grey stallion flexed his powerful muscles and tugged at his load. While we rode, an automobile chugged by, and when I saw this strange, horse-less, mechanical contraption, my mother was barely able to restrain my exuberance. Holding our luggage with one hand and me with the other, she alighted from the konkeh with great difficulty. Eventually we were ensconced in our hotel room.

Early the following morning we visited the doctor. An elderly Jewish gentleman of high repute, he barred my mother from entering the consulting room and examined me at length. After what seemed an eternity, he called her in.

Froi Michelewitz, he explained in a deep, sonorous voice, although your son’s left leg is reasonably strong, unfortunately his right one is absolutely useless. It is completely paralysed except for a few small toe-movements. Every other muscle in this limb is as good as dead. Luckily the bones have not been affected, so the leg should grow normally in length, but although its nervous system and blood circulation seem fine, unfortunately it will always be thin, shrivelled and deformed. I don’t think he’ll ever be able to use it for walking. He paused, then continued, I’m sorry to tell you, Froi Michelewitz, but he hardly has a leg worthy of mention. Only a miracle can help him - a real miracle.

"Oi Gevald!" my mother groaned, "Vos vet vehren fuhn em? (What will become of him?)"

Baruch is still too young to undergo surgery, the doctor continued. "However, when he turns four, I want you to take him to see a certain professor in Berlin who may be able to help him. Give the professor this letter and zai gezoont. Gott zol eich allemen helfen. (Be well. May God help you all.)"

After returning to our hotel room, my mother cried herself to sleep.

The next morning we were in the konkeh again en route to the railway station. Hiding her grief from the other passengers, my mother buried her head in my shawl. Oblivious of her hurt, I was enthralled by the many strange new sights we passed. When our flatulent tram-horse blew a mighty pocket of foul-smelling air, it embarrassed my mother but amused me no end.

We boarded the train again, and quite soon the views of Vilnius’s suburbs changed to kaleidoscopes of snow-clad countryside. Huddled uncomfortably in the compartment, my mother squeezed me tightly to her bosom, full of the realisation that bringing me up was to be a responsibility that would dominate her life. In contrast to the carefree days of her youth, she had hardly stopped crying since I became afflicted. Between bursts of crying, she kept wishing that her tears would somehow wash away my affliction.

After alighting in Shavel, we fetched our horse and cart and loaded our belongings. Tying me to the bench she once again took up the reins and headed back to Bogoslaviskis. The bad news my mother conveyed stunned my father. Tightening his lips and cradling his face in his hands, he rocked his head from side to side and moaned, "Oi Vei! (Woe is me!)" Then he linked arms with Zaidah Motl, and they went off to shul.

Anti-Semitism in Europe hung in the air like a malevolent nest of hornets, so Jews lived in serious jeopardy. Jewish youths were constantly being despatched to labour camps in Siberia. One day, some Tsarist soldiers arrived at Zaidah Michol-Velve’s house in Obeliai, and without warning or explanation abducted his son Meisheh-Meyer. He was never seen again. Several weeks later, Nachman-Choneh also fell victim to these barbarians. Countless families had been affected, so people sought refuge in the surrounding hillsides, caves and forests. Many began emigrating, and a veritable exodus slowly gathered momentum - chief destinations at the time being America, England and South Africa. For varying reasons, some people didn’t leave and opted rather to remain behind and chance their luck, which in turn produced anxiety as regards their future safety.

My father’s eldest brother, Itzik, was also a tailor. During combat duty the brains of a nearby soldier had splattered all over him. This precipitated a shock which profoundly influenced his character. Softly spoken, with a gentle, generous nature, he too decided to flee the squalor and uncertainty of life in Lithuania.

With the assistance of his brother-in-law Natie Liebowitz, Itzik emigrated to South Africa, leaving his wife and family in Obeliai for the time being. He established a modest business in Vrede, a dorp (small town) in the Orange Free State, and after eighteen months wrote to my father suggesting that he too should emigrate. Describing South Africa as a goldeneh medine (golden land), his letters said that the country was not only free of anti-Semitism, but also full of career opportunities. Describing the streets as being paved with gold he wrote that the climate was equable and that there were marvellous doctors in Johannesburg who could cure my legs. Lastly, in accordance with South African immigration laws, he undertook to act as my father’s sponsor.

Itzik’s letter arrived shortly after our return from Vilnius and its contents made a great impact on my father. It offered him the realisation of his dreams

- safety, freedom from tyranny, a better life for his family and mainly the chance of a cure for me. This filled him with anticipation and goaded him into action. Conditions were grim enough for normal people, but it was especially urgent to get me away from Lithuania because during pogroms, children, the aged, the infirm and particularly cripples were the first to be slaughtered. Having planned the journey - the train from Shavel would take him across Europe to London and from there he would sail to Cape Town - he went to Obeliai to bid farewell to his acquaintances, friends and family. He and his parents embraced each other knowing full well that they would never see each other again. Emigration to them was second only to bereavement. As my father shook hands with his younger brother Simmen, his parting words were, "Mirtza-shem (God willing), we’ll meet again in South Africa." Returning to Bogoslaviskis, he bade the rest of the family goodbye, and packed his tailoring requisites and other possessions into a small, patchy knapsack. After checking that his travel documents were in order, he hid his paltry sum of money in a secret pocket that he’d sewn inside his trousers, out of any pickpocket’s reach. Zaidah Motl drove us to Shavel. My mother sat next to my father on the cart and I was on his lap.

At the station, he repeatedly kissed my face and legs. Then he turned to my mother and they kissed each other long and passionately. There was no way of knowing how long their parting would be, so he held her tightly as if to fortify himself against the lonely, tedious trip that lay ahead of him.

The train moved off and, waving his hand until we were out of sight, he began the long journey. Although he was setting out to pioneer a better life for us all, at that moment nothing assuaged his aching loneliness.

We rode back to Bogoslaviskis in a silence broken only by the occasional neighing of the horse, an annoying squeak from a wheel and the faint rush of wind from the wings of birds swooping overhead. Suddenly aware of a prowling wolf, the horse reared up on its hind legs and jerked the cart at an awkward angle, tossing me out. My mother managed to grab me before I got sucked under into the mushy quicksand-like sediment. On our return home, it took several hours for the by now hard-caked mud to be soaked off my body. A bruised toe remained painful for days.

Although everyone missed my father, no-one felt lonelier than my mother. Constantly holding me close and cuddling me, she seemed to be trying thereby to fill the void in her life. Matters did not improve when she learned that the farewell night she’d spent with my father had left her pregnant. Thoughts of her reunion with him were her only consolation, and although she knew very little about South Africa, she longed to be there.

CHAPTER TWO

When my mother discovered that she was pregnant she had mixed feelings. In view of her already difficult circumstances she barely coped with me, so having to manage with another child was the last thing she needed. However, my zaidahs had always preached that each child brought its own joy and good fortune. Despite her anxieties her motherly instincts tended to elate her, so she wrote to my father telling him good news, though she still often felt depressed because he was so far away. Moreover, in a year’s time, when the new baby would be only three months old, we had our appointment with the professor in Berlin.

As their only means of communication, my father’s newsy letters were the highlights of her life and tangible proof of his existence. With a literary flair, his writings abounded with detailed descriptions of his journey on board the Guildford Castle and his subsequent arrival in Cape Town on the 25th June, 1927. He described the magnificence of Table Mountain and its surroundings, and mentioned his amazement when he first heard dark-skinned, indigenous people speaking in strange, loud, clicking dialects.

The train to Vrede was only due to leave four days after his arrival. Penury had forced him to spend the nights on beaches with his knapsack doubling as a blanket and small mounds of sea-sand covered with newspapers as makeshift pillows. Hungry, but refusing to eat non-kosher food, he spent his last sixpence on a few bananas.

Declaring his love and feelings of loneliness and despair, he confessed to doubts regarding the wisdom of his decision to emigrate. All his fellow passengers had gone on their various ways and here he stood - an alien in a foreign land, lonely, destitute, with no knowledge of the languages spoken. Unable to read, write or speak English or Afrikaans, his only option was to seek out a shul where he’d find some fellow Jews. He walked the streets of Cape Town, and had almost given up hope of finding a building displaying a Magen Dovid (Star of David), when he spotted a man in a dark suit sporting a longish, grey beard - almost certainly a rabbi.

"Sholem Aleichim (Peace to you)," he nervously greeted, and was elated by the response,

"Aleichim Sholem (Peace to you too)."

The rabbi took him to his house and gave him a hearty meal. After a warm bath my father felt somewhat better. A few days later the rabbi put him aboard the train and asked the ticket examiner to ensure that he disembarked in Vrede. As the train pulled out of Cape Town station, my father was comforted by thoughts of his forthcoming re-union with his brother Itzik.

The puffing steam engine chugged across the tortuous passes of the Hex-River Mountains. After climbing the escarpment the line levelled off into the scenic, arid countryside of the Karoo. In Bloemfontein, the capital of the Orange Free State, my father changed trains. Several hours later he arrived at his destination. He was welcomed at the station by Itzik and Natie and after his long journey he was at last amongst familiar faces again. While walking along the station’s platform, he noticed the curious glances of some dark-skinned people standing nearby to whom the Yiddish language must have sounded very strange indeed. Vrede, the dorp, was a mere siding consisting of a few houses adjacent to the railway station surrounded by flat savannah. The grand desolation that stretched to the horizon reminded him strongly of scenes back home in Obeliai.

The next day, Itzik informed him that since the surrounding district was mainly a farming area, there was a very limited market for tailor-made suits. Considering that he had to sleep on a rusty iron bed in a small curtained-off section at the rear of the shop, Itzik remarked that he’d actually been far better off back in Bogoslaviskis. He had therefore accepted a more lucrative work offer in Vryheid, a small town in Natal about two-hundred-and-fifty miles away.

But he had not neglected my father’s interests, having spoken to Slova and Nechemia Frank (their cousin and her husband) who had invited him to lodge with them in Johannesburg where in the long run he’d be far better off. Another consideration was the availability of treatment for my leg. So, my father boarded the next train for another long journey to Park Station in Johannesburg.

Natie had written Slova’s address on a piece of paper which my father showed to a railway porter who directed him to the tram stop a block away on the corner of Eloff and Plein streets. While waiting for the tram, he looked to the south down Eloff Street, one of the town’s main thoroughfares. Flanked by large buildings one up against the other and stretching as far as the eye could see, the glittering street was congested with automobiles, cyclists and pedestrians. Flush with the asphalt road-surface lay two parallel pairs of steel tracks on which clanging trams conveyed commuters to and from their homes in the suburbs. It was the evening rush hour, and he was over-awed by the hustle and bustle of the passing parade. Although this was where his future lay, he felt totally out of place, a forlorn penniless, jobless greenhorn. He pined for my mother’s love.

The tram’s arrival interrupted his tearful thoughts. After confirming that he was on the correct route, the conductor pulled an overhead leather cord that activated a gong and signalled that all was clear, and clanging his foot-bell, the driver pulled off. Winding its way out of the town centre, the tram twisted through the suburbs of Joubert Park, Hillbrow, Berea and Yeoville until it finally ground to a halt at the terminus on the corner of Rockey and Delarey Streets in Bellevue.

At number 38 Rockey Street, my father was heartily welcomed by the Frank’s. Situated halfway between Delarey and Bezuidenhout Streets, the small brick house stood on an eighth of an acre and had a tiny front garden with a slightly larger yard in the rear. Although modest, it nevertheless seemed a palace compared to his house back in Obeliai.

Rockey Street was a tree-lined, narrow, tarred road three blocks long, with a single set of steel tracks laid flush down the middle. Similar-looking small homes lined either sides of the street. Here the many new immigrants enterprisingly established small businesses and eked out an existence by catering for a multiplicity of everyday necessities, plying the trades that they’d either learned or inherited in Europe.

Slova, a buxom housewife and her tall, powerfully-built husband Nechemia, were warm, friendly people. They had emigrated to South Africa fifteen years earlier. Nechemia plied his trade as a shoemaker in the adjoining suburb of Yeoville where he owned a shop in Harrow Road near the busy arterial thoroughfare of Louis Botha Avenue. He worked there until he died in his late eighties. They hadn’t seen my father since his childhood, so at great length they talked and fondly recalled memories of their lives back in their Lithuanian shtetaleh.

Much later they took him to a little box-like room with a high, patterned, pressed-steel ceiling. A curtain draped a small wooden window that looked onto a narrow lane, and an iron-framed bed stood against a wall. For my father this was now his home. The hospitality of the Frank’s had made him feel considerably easier. For the first time since leaving Lithuania, he slept peacefully and even the clanging trams did not disturb his deep slumber.

The following Friday evening Nechemia took him to the Yeoville Shul and introduced him to the rabbi and other congregants. The founding of a shul was the first priority of Jewish communities because it served as the cornerstone of their lives binding them closely in a camaraderie that also united them with God. For the Jews who lived in and around Yeoville, the shul was also an important social centre serving much the same functions as the broonim in Bogoslaviskis. However, one couldn’t really compare the shul back there to its Yeoville counterpart. The rust-coloured brick building on the corner of Hunter Street and Kenmere Road boasted architectural features that resembled synagogues in leading European cities. Here, every morning and evening, large crowds gathered for their daily prayers.

Sitting on his favourite bench near the Holy Ark became my father’s daily routine, and many new friends filled the gap in his life. His love of Judaism found its outlet and expression and very little else mattered much to him.

He had been a choirboy in a yeshiva back in Lithuania, and in manhood was blessed with a rich baritone voice that resonated through the building. Now, when he prayed, the congregation listened with admiration. His talents did not go unnoticed by the committee who soon invited him to join the choir. The honorarium was ten shillings per month, which he initially declined to accept on the grounds that monetary rewards degraded his religious observance. He could not, however, argue against the rabbi’s edict that accepting the money was a mitzvah (good deed) since it would help towards his family’s travelling expenses. Membership of the choir bound him even closer than before to the shul. Unwittingly he was reinforcing a religious fanaticism that was to ruin his future relationship with me.

Although South Africa was in the midst of a great depression at the time with high unemployment levels, Slova had luckily found my father a job. Early one morning she took him by tram to Joubert Park, a suburb near the town centre. After walking a few blocks along the main road, Bok Street, they reached Doornfontein, where the way of life rather resembled that in Lithuanian shtetalech. Unlike in Bellevue, the homes here were in the side streets. Bok Street led into a shop-lined thoroughfare called Beit Street. Some way along, they entered a small shop and Slova introduced my father to the proprietor, Mr A Berkowitz, a genial middle-aged man who was now to be his employer. That night, my father wrote my mother a lengthy letter detailing his first day’s work in South Africa. How he’d nervously emptied and re-packed the knapsack containing his chalks, scissors, measuring-tape, needles, cottons and other requisites of his trade; how worried he was about coping with language problems; how restlessly he’d tossed around in bed the night before.

Overjoyed with my father’s positive news, my mother went about her duties with renewed vigour, though her pregnancy was progressively increasing her difficulties in mothering me. This often entailed deputising for my legs - so she only really rested when I let her. When her time came, she placed me in the care of her sisters. Zaidah Motl drove her to Vilkamir, and on the first of June I927, she gave birth to a girl. This time the birth was much easier, because the baby weighed in at only seven pounds. My baby sister was cute and petite, with a milky complexion and rosy cheeks, but her green eyes and black hair were much the same as mine.

Because of my deformity, fears had gnawed at my mother throughout her pregnancy, so when her anxious inspection revealed that the infant was healthy and perfectly normal, she sighed with deep relief, "Oi! Adank Gott! (Thank God!)" Still, with the spectre of the ayin hora still haunting her, my mother first wound the protective swaddling-cloth around the baby before displaying her to the family and announcing that she’d named her Fraidel (Joy). Staring at my sister lying alongside me, I sensed a rivalry for my mother’s affection, and only Zaidah Motl’s quick intervention prevented me from gouging out the baby’s eyes. Fraidel was now my roommate and little did I know at the time that this newborn stranger would be my best friend and confidante in the years that lay ahead.

Shortly before my fourth birthday, we left for Germany and my next medical examination. The cheapest affordable fare provided little in the way of comfort so the journey was strenuous. To ensure that I didn’t fall off the moving train, my mother tied a rope around my waist with the other end around her own. The task of carrying our luggage as well as me drained her energy, and she arrived in Berlin weary and spent.

Since the Yiddish and German languages both sound similar, communication was relatively easy. We were now in one of the world’s largest cities, and while riding to the hotel in a twin-coach single-decker tram, my mother was dumbstruck by the variety of people who strolled along the wide boulevards. She stared in wonder at the endless array of buildings and automobiles that passed her, and made a mental note to inspect the city at greater length if time permitted.

The hospital was a far bigger building than she’d envisaged, yet the lintel at the front entrance was so low that, carrying me seated on her shoulders, she had difficulty stooping to clear it. A porter noticed her plight and brought a wheel chair for me. Bewildered by the maze of corridors and doorways, we eventually arrived at the professor’s waiting rooms where his receptionist sat my mother on a bench. After a while the receptionist pushed me into the professor’s consulting room. Half an hour later he called for my mother.

Guten-Morgen, Frau Michelewitz! he said. "I have read Doctor Polnoska’s letter and have thoroughly examined Baruch’s leg so please try to understand what I’m about to tell you. Baruch wasn’t stricken by a curse. An ayin hora is a myth and scientifically there’s no such thing as an evil eye. You must be realistic and accept the fact that an ayin hora had nothing whatsoever to do with your child’s tragedy. He’s been the unfortunate victim of a disease called infantile paralysis that mainly attacks children and paralyses their limbs. In many cases it also affects vital bodily parts, often with fatal results."

After consulting his notes the professor continued, According to Doctor Polnoska, your son’s high fever was probably due to a serious disease called encephalitis. I can’t find a single symptom of brain damage so you must consider yourselves as being extremely lucky indeed. Furthermore, and this is very important, since Baruch’s hands were not affected by the disease, they will be his principal tools in helping him cope among ordinary people and are vital to his future survival.

Leaning back in his chair he continued, It is believed that polio is caused by a water-borne germ, and although research is on-going we don’t yet fully understand all the implications of the disease. While I can’t perform miracles, I can offer a little help. In view of the fact that Baruch’s left ankle wasn’t damaged quite as severely as his right one was, and its muscles are only partially paralysed, re-setting the left dropped-foot ankle should help improve matters somewhat and eventually even make it possible for him to walk a little. After the operation, I’ll order a steel walking-calliper for his right leg and also a leather corset to hold his upper body firmly in place.

This was the first official diagnosis of my disease that my mother had yet heard, and she listened incredulously. Fixed in her belief that my legs had been crippled by an ayin hora she found it bewildering to have her myth dispelled, but she had explored all other avenues for a cure, and the professor’s words did contain glimmers of hope. So she ventured to ask him, "Nu, voss vet ietzter zyne? (Well, what happens now?)"

I am going to perform the operation, the professor replied, and he stared pensively through the window at the colourful garden in the courtyard below. Looking back at my mother, he continued, Frau Michelewitz, it should take about three months for Baruch to fully recover from the operation, so I suggest you go back to Bogoslaviskis. I will let you know when he’s ready to be discharged.

Without elaborating further, he put his arm on her shoulder and led her out to the corridor, where they shook hands and he said, "I’ll do my best for Baruch, so go in peace and don’t worry. Auf wiedersehn!"

She began to walk off, then it dawned on her that she would be parted from me for the next three months and hadn’t even kissed me goodbye. From the moment I was born, not even for an instant had she ever left me alone. Quickly returning to the rooms, she held me tightly to her bosom. She turned to the professor again: Herr Professor! - she never did get to know his real name - "zoll Gott bentchen aiyereh hent. (May God bless your hands.)"

Now she had no choice but to leave me and go home. The harsh facts were that she could not afford to stay in a hotel, and even if she had remained in Berlin, hospital rules prohibited visitors. We were classified at the lowest financial level, so my hospitalisation was free. But I wonder whether my mother would willingly have signed the consent forms the professor’s receptionist had handed her, if she had fully understood their content. Unwittingly she had absolved the hospital from all blame and relinquished any rights she might have had if things went wrong.

After leaving the hospital my mother, no longer compelled to carry me, was free to do some sightseeing. On the way to the station she turned aside to explore streets, parks, buildings - whatever attracted her attention. Among the variety of goods displayed in various shop-windows, the sight of a luxurious bearskin fur-coat particularly sharpened the realisation of her own poverty. A fur coat, like indeed most of the other commodities she saw, was simply an unattainable dream.

Visualising herself in her humble clothes, with a tiechal (triangular scarf) on her head, and burdened with circumstances she couldn’t change, she realised she was but a lonely visitor humiliatingly out of tune with her environment. So she ended her excursion and boarded the train back to Bogoslaviskis. The train’s clicking wheels lulled her and she reflected that neither the bearskin coat nor indeed all the money in the world could buy a cure for my legs.

The train sped on its way and she slept and had a dream. She dreamt that my legs had been amputated at the groin and that my torso was encased in a large, black furry boot. My wrists resembled ankles and were fitted with dirty, patched leather shoes. My face was grotesque - large, toothless and bulbous, my head shaven, my eyes squint. While I was desperately calling out to her, my body started revolving like a top, gathering momentum until, much like a shooting star, I faded out of her sight.

Waking from her nightmare with a jolt, she sat whimpering in a bed of perspiration. The wooden bunk had not helped matters and her body ached with pain. Swaying with the motion of the railway carriage, she lay down again but sleep eluded her, and in her lonely desolation she cursed the Gypsy woman for having been the cause of all these hardships.

At the hospital, I was taken to a private ward where I was dressed in starched, off-white hospital garb and put into a cot with metal sidebars so that I would not fall out. I called out for my mother and wondered why she didn’t answer me - how was l to know that she’d already gone? Other than a nurse who brought me some food, I was left all alone that night. I lay fretting on my clammy cushion, softly sobbing in the darkness. The next morning I noticed that the ward’s door was fitted with a mortice-lock that contained a large keyhole. By lying on the bed at a certain