Lessons My Dad Taught

Where to begin?
Jokes about a Polish Jewish mother. Should I start there? My Mother really was and is Polish Jewess. May God allow her to be so many more years.
At the time the jokes weren’t funny. They were just part of the way it was.
Mum thought that we could survive by being prepared to run.
‘Learn medicine. So when you run you take everything with you in your head’.
‘When you run’. Not if you run. Even in the mid 20th century in Yorkshire, in the goyish of goyish places we had to be ready. It was coming again. We had to have clean under pants too in case we got run over. We cannot show Mum up.
A joke— ? No that’s the way that we existed. Ready to run. The day would come.

But my Father was anglicized. He knew we could have a better life. It was quite simple for Dad. ‘If there are 10 Jews you can make ‘them’ feel as if you are a 100 or 1. Make them feel that there is only one. Better still none.’ That was it. Just disappear – if you didn’t want them to get you.

Two parents one message camouflage yourself and be ready. Always be ready. Look out for other Jews, but if they draw attention to themselves avoid them. Remember that your behaviour can lead to them being gassed. Thiers could lead to you being gassed. Jews were unwilling guarantors to each other. And never trust a Goy. ‘Just scratch them. It’s under the surface. It’ll come out. Never trust them’.

But Dad had other ideas too. You could not let the goys walk over you. If you cringed and hid and did not go out provoking anti Semitism and you got it — then hit back.
That was the rules. They left you alone if you retreated into your mobile schtell. But if you got a pogrom hit back. This was our freedom. Rules on how to exist.

So when Barry Regan thumped me Dad went into action. Barry was my friend. A big goy who towered above me. I cannot remember why he hit me. But he did and hard. So home I went crying. What did Dad do? He threw me out. ‘The goy hit you. Go back and hit him. Don’t come back to you do. If not he’ll bully you as a weak Jew’.

So off I went to Barry’s house. Terrified and weeping I pressed the door bell. Barry opened the door and I hit him. He burst into tears. I ran. Still crying I raced home.

This is true. If it was a fable I would have had a positive experience. I should admire Dad for making me tough. I don’t. I still feel the terror. I wanted to be Barry’s pal. I ended being terrified of both him and my Dad.

So here I am in Israel. Nowhere to run to. But still not safe. Still sure that they’ll come and get me. Sure I can hit out. In fact I do. But wishing someone once would protect me. Someone once would be my friend. But above all just let me be. Let me be. Let mine be.

Dad’s dead, Barry is a memory but all the shadows and nuances live on in me and in the shadows that follow me.

I am an Israeli.