Los
Angeles, California
Wednesday,
May 1, 1985
My
dearest Vanessa
Here
I am, sitting alone in my little apartment, thinking about your
telephone call to me while you, Nicholas and your Mum were having
dinner.
I
can picture the three of you at your dining room table while Dad was
out, having his French lesson and I wonder what really was happening
to cause you to call me while in the middle of dinner. When I
asked you what news you had to tell me, you giggled and said that Mum
had a new hairdo, and described it as shaved to one side, frizzed on
top" which aroused my suspicions. I said, "You must be
kidding," but you said, "No, seriously, it is true." What a
kidder you are, Vanessa, what a strange girl.
I
often try to imagine you as a young lady, and wonder what thoughts and
feelings go on in your head; what dreams you dream; how I can relate to
you; what I can talk to you about; and what can I say in a letter that
you asked me to write. What do you want to hear? Do
you just want to receive a letter in the mail addressed to
you? Maybe it's just that. It makes me think back
to the time when I was thirteen, just like you, in a very different
place in the world which, for different reasons from yours (yet maybe
not so different), I wanted to escape from.
The
year was 1924 and the Great War had been over for six years.
It was a terrible year, which would lead up to the Great Depression
which occurred in 1929. Thanks to my mother, may she rest in
peace, there was always food for the seven children in my
family. When she married my father in 1899, and after my
oldest sister, Betty, was born, she realized it was up to her to find a
way to keep a roof over our heads and food in our mouths, so she
decided to ask her brother my Uncle Morris Collins to help her
start a restaurant.
In
the eleven years that followed, she slaved from early morning to late
at night to care for the seven of us. She would rise at the
crack of dawn, and at 5 a.m. would line up at the open-air markets in
order to purchase the rationed food which she would use to cook endless
meals in the restaurant kitchen. The first meal, breakfast,
would be for the customers who had stores in our street, then lunches
for the immigrants and local business people, and then afternoon tea
and late suppers for the younger people who wanted to congregate at the
restaurant after a movie or evening class.
I
remember my earlier years vividly, especially of being in the hospital
when I was about eighteen months old and then again at age
two. The first visit was for scarlet fever and the second
occasion was due to an abscess under my arm which had to be cut away as
the infection was nearing my heart. I was so bewildered at
being in an isolation ward where no-one could visit me, and I cried and
cried for my mother. This all happened around 1913, the year
before the outbreak of the Great World War or World War I as we call
it today. I was brought home by my cousin, Annie Moss, in
what must have been one of the first taxicabs in London.
I
was only two years old and had forgotten my home and family but there
to greet me was a brand new baby brother, Jack.
The
restaurant, known as "Snelwar's Kosher Restaurant," in my young eyes
appeared to be a long, gloomy, narrow room. The front section
had a counter and shelves displaying cigarettes and cigars, and on the
wall, in a large glass frame, was a great stuffed fish. There
was a huge tea urn that brewed tea from morning to night, which had to
be lighted by gas first thing in the morning. Then there were
rush benches along the wall, with long iron tables abutting
them. Another counter was situated at the end of the dining
room which displayed mouth-watering heaps of gefulte fish, chopped
liver and herrings, salted and pickled herrings all home-made fried
fish, halibut, plaice and cod. Yet another counter in the
front of the shop, next to the tea urn, housed the cheese, pastries,
yeast cakes and other confections, all baked in the coke oven by my
mother. Passersby could view these tempting delights from the
large front window leading onto the street.
Through
a side door was a separate entrance which lead to our living
quarters. My parents hardly ever used this area, except to
sleep. The first floor above the restaurant had two rooms and
a landing which lead to the second and third floors. There
could be found my two older sisters' sitting room and the
'parlor'. The sitting room had initially been used for all
the children to do their homework in, but had later been converted into
a sewing room for my sisters, Betty and Corrie. Oh, Vanessa,
you should have seen the beautiful clothes they made! They
used materials of post-war fashion silk, crepe de chine, charmeuse (a
satin with crepe de chine backing, gorgeous to the touch), ring
velvets, fur trimming on evening coats of mock satin and chinchilla,
short evening dresses trimmed with rows of graduated fringes for the
Charleston dancing, and heavily beaded, low-waisted dresses, many with
beautiful hand embroidery. I can vividly remember my sisters
dressing up to go to balls and dances, trying on their gowns,
practicing for dance competitions, and then waiting for their dance
partners to pick them up. It was as if I were Cinderella,
eleven years their junior, sitting quietly in the corner of the room,
watching all the excitement.
To
return to the 'sitting room' it had a fireplace (actually a little
grate for a tiny coal fire), which was a great luxury. The
coal had to be hauled up in an iron bucket from the yard outside the
kitchen, where the lavatories were located. No, we had no
indoor plumbing no toilets or wash basins inside the house - can you
imagine that? As a concession, we had a bath installed in the
outhouse which adjoined the sitting room, but there was no toilet in it.
Inside
the sitting room was a bookcase which contained Cassell's History of
England, a large dictionary, and a set of Dickens' and Shakespeare
plays, plus Nathanial Hawthorne's 'Golden Treasury.' This was
my hideaway, where I could live in another world, and where I used to
bring my cats to play with. We had a huge family of cats who
had litters of kittens, which I had to endlessly feed with saucers of
milk.
My
sisters were always clamoring for a toilet to be installed in the
house, but the landlord refused, and said we would have to pay for it
ourselves, which my parents could not afford. My sisters were
ashamed to bring boyfriends home. They loved to make parties,
but were embarrassed because they had to go downstairs, through the
restaurant, kitchen and back yard where the public toilet was
located. It was awful! I hated using it as it was never
clean, and there was no toilet paper only pieces of newspaper hanging
from a string (ugh).
There
was a square rosewood dining table in the sitting room. Your
mum will probably remember I inherited it from my parents when they
came to live with me when I married. It had a great iron burn
which your Uncle Alan caused when he switched on the electric iron
while I was out shopping. He would have been only three years
old then. But that's by the way poor little fellow, he was
always in trouble. Mischief found idle hands!
Our
"parlor" was used for special occasions. Oh, how I remember
the flowered carpet, a round table and petit point chairs.
The footstools were also beaded in petit point and a black,
glass-fronted ebony display cabinet held china and crystal, exquisite
Venetian goblets of red, purple and gold, and Crown Derby plates.
On
the sideboard were displayed jade and ivory carvings and figurines,
Dresden porcelain fruit bowls, and a Bavarian head of a peasant smoking
a pipe so many priceless and beautiful objects d'art. And,
of course, the piano, with its upright rosewood frame where I had my
short career of lessons, after learning the scales. I wanted
instant mastery but, alas, my teacher despaired and gave up on
me. I remember my mother's words so plainly, "You'll be sorry
when you're older."
Then,
up the crooked, narrow staircase to the second floor
bedrooms. My parents were on the left and my two sisters and
I occupied the front room, which overlooked the street, with a small
landing between the two rooms. My sisters had a massive
double-sided wardrobe with a full-length mirror in the
center. Built-in closets would not be invented for many more
years. On each side of the wardrobe were doors which opened
to racks of clothes and in the mirrored center were rows of shelves for
linens, and deep drawers for underwear and lingerie. This
piece of walnut furniture took up the whole wall.
When
my sisters were at work in their respective offices, I remember my
cousin, Sadie Collins, and I dressing up in my sisters'
clothes. The two of us draped ourselves in the satin, brocade
and velvet evening gowns and cloaks, trimmed with imitation
chinchilla. We tottered around in their high-heeled gold and
silver dance slippers, and tried on their jewelry and makeup.
I
remember my cousin looking at me in awe as I said to her, "Now I'm a
fairy princess, and the prince is going to make me vanish under his
golden cloak."
She
said to me with a lisp, "Sarah, what's vanish?"
I
was full of fairy tales, stories of King Arthur, his knights in shining
armor, the search for the Holy Grail and, of course, I was always the
princess under a spell. I was convinced I was stolen from a
king and queen and left on the doorstep, for although I was petted,
being the youngest little girl, I did not feel this was my real station
in life. I would always think of Joseph and his
many brothers how they jeered at him as my brothers and sisters did
every morning when I came down to breakfast and said, "Let me tell you
about the dream I had." They would say, just as in the Bible,
"You and your dreams!"
Up
to the top floor of the building where my four brothers slept, a place
I never ventured. It was the parlor I would retreat to as I
grew up, to look at all the beautiful ornaments. You may
wonder where all these expensive items came from well, they were
acquired by my father, an easy-going blond man with no business sense,
except for the love of beautiful things. At that time (1915),
after the Russian Revolution and the assassination of Czar Nicholas and
his family, there was a rush to emigrate from the Bolshevik reign of
terror, and the Jewish ้migr้s would settle in the ghetto of London
and the orthodox Jews would come into our restaurant to keep warm and
buy cheap and good kosher food. Many wanted to start
businesses, but needed a sponsor to guarantee them, so my father stood
guarantee for many who got into debt, and he had to pay their debts
so they often gave him their treasurers, brought from Russia, in part
payment. Many of these treasures went to my two sisters when
they married.
But
I digress. To go back to our house and restaurant in Osborn
Street, located in Whitechapel, London since we had no indoor
plumbing, two large buckets were placed on the small landing between my
parents' room and my sisters and me. I can vividly remember
the disgust I felt when my brother would come down in the night to pee
in the buckets, which got full to overflowing with use by seven
children and my parents. Early in the morning, the buckets
were carried down the narrow, dark stairs to the restaurant, through
the kitchen, and emptied in the lavatories in the yard. I'm
sure that the cause of my constipation in early life was caused by
refusing to use those awful buckets.
When
I was three years old (in 1914), I could barely wait to go to
school. It was lonely being confined to a perambulator in a
corner of the dining room, having to wait for my sisters and brothers
to come home. As soon as my third birthday arrived, off I
trotted with my mother to Chicksand Street School, Infants
Department. I can see myself as if it were yesterday so
excited to look at the window, just before the school gates, and see
the teacher painting and staining the glass with a bright robin
redbreast, tweeting on a leafy bough. Then, through the gates
into the first infants' classroom, with tiny rows of desks facing a
raised platform where the teacher and blackboard were. Wonder
of wonders a rocking horse which, if we were very good, we got to
ride on Fridays. My eyes constantly rested on the stained
glass window pane. Pinned to the walls were squares of brown
paper with drawings of oranges, apples and bananas, which each child
brought on different days. How proud I was to see my first
effort pinned on the wall a bright red orange, which I had confused
with the sun. The infant school stated at three years of age
and then, at five, we went to regular school.
I
remember the pages of the first reader, the pictures so smooth, the
letters so round and beautiful. We learned to read at four
years, and by the time we went to regular school we were able to read
quite easily.
Just
before my fifth birthday, my three year old brother and I were running
along the rush benches in the restaurant, when they gave way, and my
leg was ripped open from knee to thigh on a rusty nail. In a
trail of blood, I was rushed to the local doctor a few doors away, and
had the gash stitched. There were no antibiotics or tetanus
shots in those days. What terror I felt having the dressings
changed, the blood dried and the bandage stuck fast on the
wound. I still have the scar on my leg, but so much smaller
and fainter than it was then taking up the whole of my upper leg for
many years.
The
Great World War was in its second year before I was ready for regular
school. All the children would give their pocket money to the
War Fund for the soldiers. We had a big chart in the
schoolroom, which showed which class had contributed the most
money.
The
war seemed never-ending and during this period our house was wired for
electricity from the gas jets and mantles. I would follow the
electrician from floor to floor, watching him wire the house and
restaurant, and I was the first to be allowed to switch on the electric
lights. What a wonder and thrill!
Then
there were the first crystal sets, "cat's whisker" radio broadcasting
from the BBC. Later, we could hear news of the war front
being broadcast from the local Town Hall building, as well as the
general elections and by-elections. People gathered around
the Town Hall to hear the news then after four weary years of war,
air raids, and zeppelin raids, the Armistice was announced on November
11, 1918, when I was seven years old. How I remember the
almost hysterical cheering and laughter of the people, and the tears,
when they heard that announcement.
When
I was ten years old in 1921, my school was closed. With the
men being at war for so long, the birth rate had gone down and there
were not enough children to fill the school. There were
plenty of poor people, so they converted it into a Salvation Army
hostel. There was an official opening by King George V and
Queen Mary. A great procession went through our streets, and
I saw the royal carriages being drawn by prancing horses, with the King
and Queen and royal family ensconced inside. There were
mounted horse guards proudly wearing their scarlet uniforms, with
bearskin helmets, and the cavalry rode magnificent stallions, which
nodded their noble heads, with the royal three-plumed feathers swaying
in front of them. All were escorted by soldiers wearing
armored uniforms, with steel helmets and plumes coming down over their
eyes. What a stirring sight it was. I saw Randolph
Churchill, brother of Winston, on a marvelous horse. He was
so handsome that I asked someone who he was. I will never
forget the picture of him, sitting erect on his horse. That
was an historic event, which compensated for the dreary war years.
The
next year, 1922, my eldest sister, Betty, married Ernest
Maisner. I was eleven years old and she was
twenty-two. She had several bridesmaids,
including myself, and we all wore peach crepe de chine with rows of
pico-edged frills from waist to hem, a wide velvet fuschia colored band
for a belt, and trimming from shoulder to hem. I loved that
dress, the first absolutely new "fancy" dress I had ever
owned. For many years I had a picture of the wedding group;
now it is lost, but someone in the family must have some pictures.
Your
mother will remember that in England, when we reached eleven years of
age, we had to pass the "11-plus" examination to get into high
school. How frightened I was at the prospect since, for most
of the school year, I had been ill and away from school with the 'flu,
colds, or whatever epidemic was raging. My fears were
realized I could not take my scholarship exams so I had to continue
in elementary school. However, when I was thirteen years old,
my headmistress, Miss Staff, recommended me for a supplementary
scholarship because I was her star pupil in literature and
composition. All my essays were copied into a special book,
in my best handwriting, because Miss Staff said to the school assembly
that she was sure, one day, I would bring fame to the school with my
writing. So sorry, Miss Staff, I never did.
At
thirteen years of age, I was already working in the
restaurant. This was the time that Lloyd George's liberal
government fell to the socialists. There were political
meetings at the street corner, which proved to be very exciting, with
hecklers booing the candidates and singing ditties, such as, "Vote,
Vote, Vote for Mr. Riley punch old "so and so" in the eye," and
such-like rude songs. The candidates often ended their
election campaigns in our restaurant, and I was fascinated to hear
their arguments.
I
left school when I was fourteen and went to a continuation school in
the City of London to learn secretarial work. I had to leave
because of the General Strike, which paralyzed all
businesses. The buses and trains stopped running, supplies
stopped and the streets were dead. At that time, business was
so bad, people could not afford to eat in restaurants, so my brother,
Stanley, took to illegal horserace betting and the police raided our
restaurant. They closed us down, leaving us with no way to
pay the rent or buy food. I remember that raid with a beating
heart. There was a newspaper seller named Hobo, who was a
runner for Stanley. He would collect bets and give them to
Stanley at his newsstand. I remember how I used to beg and
plead with my father not to allow Stanley to do this in the
shop. I would see policemen looking in, and see Hobo give
Stanley the betting slips, but to no avail. Then, my worst
fears came true when I saw plain clothes detectives come bursting
through the door, place a guard at the entrance, and declare, "This is
a police raid." My brother, Stanley, who had been collecting
bets from the customers, ran into the back kitchen and tried to thrust
the bets into the coal fire range, but the police rushed after him and
arrested him. Meanwhile, in the restaurant, the other
customers were being searched, and Hobo said to me, very calmly, "Bring
me a glass of lemon tea," and proceeded to put the betting slips in his
mouth to swallow them, but he was nabbed by the police and arrested,
too. As a result, the restaurant was closed and my father was
in danger of being deported to Russia (he never became a naturalized
British citizen, alas).
My
poor mother. She took herself to the Home Office in
Whitehall, confronted the Home Secretary in his office, despite the
staff trying to keep her out, and poured her heart out to him. She had
depositions for her good character from the Chief of Police locally,
and the Home Secretary had compassion for her and allowed her to carry
on the restaurant in her name, revoking the order for deportation of my
father. Stanley was let off with a warning, which he never
heeded, and he continued with his betting long into the future.
My
mother was such a good, brave lady, a selfless and devoted
mother. All of her children loved and respected her. Her
whole life was one of drudgery, selflessness and devotion to her family.
Well,
my darling Vanessa, at the beginning of this letter I thought, what can
I say to my beloved granddaughter, who has asked me to write her a
letter. The old brain started thinking, and there are so many
more things I could elaborate on over the many years I have
lived. It would be a great achievement, Vanessa, if you would
write in the diary I gave you. Put down your thoughts and
feelings, and record your memories of the trips overseas you have made
with your parents.
Many
children haven't had such opportunities as you have. It will
help you remember so much clearly when your children ask you about your
family and your childhood. You are so much luckier than your
cousins in England. They only have a few fleeting memories of
a few short visits with me, whereas you have had your two grandmothers
for quite some time.
Will
you and Nicholas remember your grandmother Dorothy in a few years
time? Will I grow to know you and Nicholas as young
adults? I try to write and tell you about how things were in
my young life. You and Nicholas gave both your grandmothers so much
love and joy, but will your memories of us be clear when you have your
own children, I wonder.
I
can remember my teen years and how difficult it was for my parents to
reach me; how stubborn I was in rejecting them when they tried to get
my confidence. I can still see the anxiety in my mother's
eyes when she could not communicate with me. I am sorry I
never had more time to learn about her feelings and regret how much I
lost by not letting her be my friend and confidante, to share my hopes
and dreams. She never had the time or the strength to
overcome the wall I put up between us. But I did have the
chance to make up for it at the end of her life when I took care of her
until her death in 1952. I learned so much about her, and
came to admire and respect her for her patient devotion to her
children, despite her life of drudgery, about which she never
complained. I am so grateful to have had that chance to know
her at the end
Well,
my Vanessa, I had so little thought that this would be such a long
letter. Remember, your grandmother loves you dearly, just as
your mother and father do. If only you could appreciate it
but that is for history to prove to you. Don't let it be too
late to enjoy the friendship that is yours for the asking.
I
love you very much, and will always be your devoted,
Nanny Sarah xox