1914 \u2013 Fulham<\/b><\/p>\n
For John Smith\u2019s parents, John Snr and his wife Susan, life continued pretty much as it had done before their son went off to war. There\u2019d be moments when they\u2019d think of him and worry, but, along with most of the country, they expected the war to be over and their son to be back by Christmas.<\/p>\n
Susan was preparing breakfast, poaching eggs, and buttering bread, as John came down the stairs of their dark terraced house in Fulham. Just as he got to the bottom step an envelope fell from the letterbox to the floor. The youngest of their children, William, picked it up and handed it to his father, but as he took it he froze.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it?\u201d William asked.<\/p>\n
His father, still motionless, seemed to wake suddenly. \u201cGo help your mother.\u201d<\/p>\n
William pushed his lips together and did as he\u2019d been told while John put the letter in his pocket and joined him and Susan in the kitchen. He sat down and proceeded to eat his breakfast in silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou alright?\u201d Susan asked.<\/p>\n
John looked at her and nodded, but as soon as the children left the house, he took the letter from his pocket and showed it to her. As they sat together, she read it aloud to him.<\/p>\n
Their son\u2019s dog collar had been found on a dead German soldier, and that, along with his disappearance, had led his senior officers to register him as missing in action, presumed dead. Susan reached out to John and grabbed his hand, and looking into his eyes said, \u201cI\u2019m telling you now, he\u2019s not dead. I\u2019d know if he was, I\u2019d feel it.\u201d<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n
1934 \u2013 Boris aged 7 \u2013 R\u0113zekne\u00a0\u2013 Latvia<\/b><\/p>\n
Boris gathered the last crumbs of latke (a kind of potato pancake) from his plate, then seeing his mother\u2019s back was turned, his mouth still full, he tried for a quiet exit. His eldest sister, Betty, thought otherwise, and grabbed him, \u201cListen you little,\u201d she paused to restrain herself, \u201cif you make jokes about my finger again you won\u2019t make it to your eighth birthday!\u201d She pushed him away and attempted to slap the top of his head. He ducked and roared with laughter as he made a hasty, far less discreet getaway. By the time his mother shouted after him, he was gone. She dried her hands, walked to the front door, and called his name again, but he was up the road, waving from a cart he\u2019d jumped on bound for the town. It was raining so Boris pulled some straw over himself and through it told the cart driver he was going to the theatre.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen I grow up, I shall sing to you from the stage to thank you for this lift.\u201d<\/p>\n
The driver laughed, \u201cIf your mother ever gets hold of me, I doubt I\u2019ll be around.\u201d<\/p>\n
When they reached the town Boris made his way to the theatre, walked past the queue, and took the side alley where, unseen, he scaled the wall to a second-floor window. Once inside he found a single empty seat between two couples knowing both would think he belonged to the other. As everyone joined in the sing-alongs Boris fantasised about being on stage singing, acting, and leading the audience one day too.<\/p>\n
After the show, Boris looked out for people from his neighbourhood and casually joined them for the journey home. Again, he managed to hitch a lift where he sang to his captive, but drunkenly appreciative, audience as the snow fell.<\/p>\n
When Boris got home the door was locked. He shouted up to the little window in the attic where he knew they\u2019d all be sleeping.<\/p>\n
\u201cMum, let me in. I\u2019m freezing.\u201d<\/p>\n
No answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease, it\u2019s snowing. I am sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
No answer.<\/p>\n
Boris felt the tears rising, sniffed them back, looked at his inevitable bed for the night, the kennel, got in, and as the temperature dropped further, he pulled the dog close and took refuge in sleep. The next thing he felt was the dog scrambling to get out and his mother pulling both out into the cold. It was then the beating began. As she smacked and screamed at him, he cried for her to stop, but she continued until eventually, he could only surmise she didn\u2019t love him anymore.<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n
Boris\u2019 mother, Esther (nee Berzin), had dark piercing eyes and long black hair with roots that went all the way back to the Jewish tribes of the Levant. When Boris was a kid he\u2019d walk the streets in R\u0113zekne where sticks, stones and hurtful words would be thrown at him for being a Jew. He\u2019d hurl those stones and hurtful words straight back at them, but no matter how hard or far he flung them, they\u2019d burn a hole in him that could only be filled by a yearning for justice.<\/p>\n
When Esther beat him, she would scream, \u201cBoris why do you do these things to me?\u201d He would tell her he loved her, but the more she beat him the more the lure of the external world, the intrigue of the night, and the excitement of danger carved a path for him to follow.<\/p>\n
If Boris was a child in today\u2019s world he\u2019d probably be labelled as having some kind of syndrome such as Attention Deficit Disorder and most of the other mothers in the school would be thinking what he needs is a good beating, but for Boris, the beatings were bad and certainly didn\u2019t make him good.<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n 1928 – Rezekne, Latvia<\/b><\/p>\n Boris\u2019 earliest memory was of being two years old when he was carried into a dark room to see his dead grandmother, Yudas, (Judy\/Nechama), who was covered in a sheet and surrounded by candles. The significance of this death wasn\u2019t apparent at the time, but her passing set off a chain reaction that links to my own first memory, this being one of sitting in a hallway, looking at the doors of a nursery waiting for my mother to pick me up. As soon as the doors would open, my mother would walk in, pick me up and I\u2019d nuzzle into her neck and hair as she hugged me.<\/p>\n When Esther\u2019s husband\u2019s parents had been alive the whole family lived in one of many houses the family owned. But when, in 1928, Boris entered the blacked-out room of his grandmother\u2019s wake, darkness fell upon the whole family. Boris\u2019s grandfather had died shortly before Yudas, so, she\u2019d thought it a good time to release the capital in the properties and share it amongst the family members. Within days of doing so, though, an exceptional rise in inflation meant all that money wasn\u2019t worth the paper it was written on and within weeks they moved from being landlords to land-poor.<\/p>\n A few years after Yudas died, Samuel decided to go to South Africa to find work with the aim of establishing a new home for his family there. He left his wife to look after Boris and the two elder brothers Rudie also known as Hymie, (I know, it\u2019s confusing) and Eliezer. There were also two daughters, one, Betty, had been born in 1914 and was already grown up. The other, Batia, was only six. Before leaving for South Africa, Samuel took Batia to Riga, the capital of Latvia, to visit an aunt and exhausted by the long train journey she fell asleep soon after their arrival. Riga was an exciting city for a six-year-old girl and her father had promised her a tour the next day, but when she woke, he was gone. Later that morning her aunt informed her she\u2019d be staying with them for a while. Of course, Batia was devastated, but I\u2019m getting ahead of myself here. Don\u2019t worry, I\u2019ll tell you more about her another time.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Shortly before moving out of their old, previously owned house, Boris, who slept in the attic, fell down the attic stairs and damaged his testes. Thirty-two years later this accident would be used to try to deny the accident that created me, but a court-ordered blood test denied the denial and a settlement was agreed upon.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Within a few months, Esther had lost her home, her financial security, and a husband who\u2019d left her with three sons to care for, one of whom seemed determined to command, demand and self-harm!<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n August 2005 – The Microwave<\/b><\/p>\n I\u2019ve ordered a microwave for Boris, the Tour Guide, now. It\u2019s taken me a few days to get around to it, however, there\u2019s a pleasure in buying for other people. Like casual sex with no consequences.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1930 – Rezekne, Latvia<\/b><\/p>\n The disappearance of Samuel meant Boris\u2019s waywardness would go unchecked further and consequently triggered a chain of absentee fathers that stretched through me and possibly beyond.<\/p>\n When Samuel arrived in South Africa, he immediately shirked his responsibilities and acted like a single man once more. As Esther was left to fend for herself, she slowly grew ill while at the same time, Boris and his brothers experienced their childhood under the encroaching clouds of World War 2.<\/p>\n 1936 to 1939 – Rudie<\/b><\/p>\n Rudie, aka Hymie, was Boris\u2019s eldest brother and in many ways was his opposite. Boris once told me he was his father\u2019s favourite because they were both the black sheep of the family, but when it came to white sheep, none were ever as luminescent as Hymie. Fortunately for the rest of the family, Hymie sensed their need to escape Europe, so, he decided to make his way to South Africa where he\u2019d join his father and remind him of the original plan.<\/p>\n Six years had passed since Samuel had left his family to fend for themselves but within two years of Hymie arriving, they\u2019d saved enough money to buy tickets for Esther, Eliezer, and Boris to join them. Meanwhile, Boris\u2019 sisters had both settled in Riga, so, they chose not to go to South Africa.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1938<\/b><\/p>\n Soon after arriving in Johannesburg, Boris\u2019 mother, already emaciated and ill from the journey, collapsed and was diagnosed as having breast cancer. Boris told me that in her last weeks, she screamed in agony and begged to be put out of her misery. If there was pain relief, they couldn\u2019t afford it.<\/p>\n Her desire to get her children to safety, to a better life, had been fulfilled, but for her, beyond that, there was no consolation and within days she died.<\/p>\n Soon after, Hymie told Boris a psychic had told him they would come to South Africa and their mother would die before 1940.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d Boris asked.<\/p>\n Hymie sighed, \u201cWhat good would it have done?\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 2005 – The Homeless<\/b><\/p>\n I often have people say to me that because I have short arms it makes them appreciate their lot is not so bad after all. At one time I used to work with homeless people, and I\u2019d occasionally hear them say they thought they\u2019d \u201chad it bad\u201d \u2018til they saw me. Yet, I\u2019d be thinking about how much better my life was compared to theirs. But when I think of the likes of Esther, her mother, or her 13 dead siblings, I realise just how lucky most of us are.<\/p>\n One advantage I have found of appearing burdened with a tragic life is homeless people begging on the street rarely ask me for any money. Instead, they wave at me and greet me as a brother in arms, even if it\u2019s a shorter one than normal.<\/p>\n On my first day working in a homeless people\u2019s resource centre, I even got away with hurrying everyone away at closing time with, \u201cCome on you lot, haven\u2019t you got any homes to go to?\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1930s – Johannesburg<\/b><\/p>\n Once Esther died, Samuel had Boris put into a local orphanage, but Boris ran away, so, his father let him live at home, even so, he spent most of the time on the streets. Sixty-two years later I sat and watched Boris cry because he couldn\u2019t stand to be kept in hospital any longer as he recuperated from a stroke. For Boris, feeling restricted was an anathema. Ironically, he didn\u2019t find the army restrictive, so by the time he was 14 and World War Two had broken out, he leapt at the opportunity to join the struggle.<\/p>\n Along with a lot of other young men, he queued in the heat of the Johannesburg midday sun and eventually stood in front of Colonel Molineux who asked him his age. Boris told him he was seventeen, but he was informed he\u2019d still need his father\u2019s signature, at which point Molineux handed him the form. Boris went away for a couple of hours, signed it himself, then returned it and within weeks was serving as a medical orderly on the front line in Kenya and Abyssinia against the Italians.<\/p>\n I<\/p>\n I have a photograph of Boris taken during this period, and he looked like me when I was 14, only he was wearing a soldier\u2019s uniform that looked too big for him, while I dressed up like Fonzi from \u2018Happy Days\u2019. We both looked seventeen by the way, but I just used my mature looks to get into pubs, rather than battlegrounds.<\/p>\n As the weeks went by, Boris befriended another soldier from Johannesburg who sent a letter back to his girlfriend expressing his concern that Boris didn\u2019t seem to have anyone back home. Feeling sorry for him she sent Boris a parcel for Christmas. Perhaps this act of kindness jogged Boris\u2019 feelings of connection to his family and noticing this, his friend got his girlfriend to let Boris\u2019 father know where he was and reassure him he was safe. A few weeks later Boris\u2019s captain, Finley Edgington, entered Boris\u2019s tent and told him they\u2019d received a report that Boris had signed up fraudulently. Boris went very quiet. Edgington said, \u201cI know you don\u2019t want to go back, and we all like you and don\u2019t want you to go either, but if you say nothing, we\u2019ll have no alternative but to send you back immediately. But if you say this is true and you want to stay then we can send a request back to your father asking for permission for you to continue in the army. If he says no then we\u2019ll have to send you back but that might take weeks before we get the orders, which will be better than going today.\u201d Boris opened up to him, and after several weeks of waiting, he was indeed ordered to return home, which he did so, begrudgingly. However, as soon as Boris turned 16, he re-enlisted but this time was sent to India, where at first he was in the Tank Corps and later involved in moving horses and mules.<\/p>\n One of the other members of his company had also been a school friend named Barney Smith. One day they were summoned to a meeting at the transportation depot. Their Commander asked for volunteers to go on an expedition that involved travelling by boat. Barney stepped forward, no doubt anticipating a pleasant day out, but Boris grabbed him and told him not to go, so, Barney took his advice. The boat was sunk and everyone on the boat died, including the Commander. One day I met Barney, and Boris said, \u201cHey, Barney, remember when I saved your life?\u201d<\/p>\n Barney said, \u201cOf course, I do.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d Boris added, \u201cWhen you die leave some of your money to my son Simon here.\u201d<\/p>\n Barney looked at me and said, \u201cDon\u2019t you worry Simon, I\u2019ll remember you.\u201d<\/p>\n But he didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1997 – Psychic or Psycho-Neurotic<\/b><\/p>\n Incidents such as Boris saving Barney\u2019s life are possibly just coincidences to which we attach greater significance than we should. Still, there have been many such coincidences in my life that I find hard to dismiss so readily. Consequently, I can\u2019t help but be a little open-minded to there being more to them than meets the eye. I shall share some of these incidents with you as we go on, but in the meantime here\u2019s one, and yes, it\u2019s a bit tenuous, but it\u2019ll do to get started with.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t get to meet Boris until I was in my mid-thirties and had only ever written one poem which mentioned him. In it, I wrote the line, \u201cAm I psychic or neurotic?\u201d During our first-ever meeting, I videoed Boris who looked at the camera and said, \u201cAm I psychic or psycho-neurotic?\u201d And as he said those words the poem came back to me. I can\u2019t prove there\u2019s such a thing as telepathy, or pre-cognition, or the ability to speak to the dead, but this aspect, the world of the sixth sense, is one that both Boris and I seem to have had some experience of, yet both of us doubt it is real too.<\/p>\n While we may share that gene, there are two others that he didn\u2019t hand down to me. One was his aptitude for languages, he speaks around 12 of them to a practical standard, (which means he speaks them well enough to chat women up with), and the other is his thick mop of hair. I used to think I\u2019d like to have his linguistic skills. OK, I speak English, a bit of French, a tiny bit of Japanese and a lot of Rubbish, but now, as I\u2019m balding I think I\u2019d prefer the hair!<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 2005 – Radio Show<\/b><\/p>\n Yesterday evening I went to a Radio 4 recording of a comedian called Adam Bloom. During the warm-up he interacted with the audience and at one point pointed out my hair was receding, I nodded at him and agreed it was. As I looked at him, I thought he looked Jewish, and his name was probably a shortened version of Bloomberg, although I may be wrong, and because of that, I felt there was some kind of kinship between us. Of course, I am not Jewish, especially in terms of Jewish doctrines, because my mother was not Jewish, but to a Nazi, I\u2019d be one. Even among my non-Nazi-non-Jewish friends, once they\u2019re aware of my Jewish heritage, they often treat me as if I am Jewish. The issue of being Jewish has had very little impact on me, still though, I enjoy the idea of having links to such a contentious part of the world\u2019s population, even if I don\u2019t wholly belong to it either. Ironically when I was a child, I was quick, along with everyone I knew, to use the term \u201cYou Jew!\u201d in a derogatory manner, never suspecting I was, technically speaking, Jewish too.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n July 2005 – The Hilton<\/b><\/p>\n A few years ago, I walked onto the balcony of my room at the Hilton Metropole in Brighton and spoke to my mother on my mobile phone. As we chatted, she told me about a time when she\u2019d stood outside the same hotel as a child and heard her father spit out the words, \u201cSee that woman coming out of that place, the one in a fur coat and all those jewels, she\u2019s a Jew!\u201d And another time, when she shopped in London\u2019s Oxford Street, her parents would warn her not to go into some of the shops there as they were owned by Jews who would \u201cdrag you in and not let you go until you\u2019ve bought something.\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1940s – Unknown Soldiers<\/b><\/p>\n Boris shoots his gun at a soldier\u2019s head. This is the real unknown soldier, the one soldiers know they\u2019ve killed, who they will know for the rest of their lives even though they\u2019ll never know who they were. They are the ones they do not mention, who they try to forget but remember, who they hope will greet them at Heaven\u2019s gates and forgive them.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n When Boris returned from the war, he knocked on his father\u2019s door and an English woman answered, it turned out she was Samuel\u2019s new wife. Boris told her who he was, but she wouldn\u2019t let him in and suggested he come back later when Samuel was back. Boris went up the street to his aunt\u2019s house and returned later as requested. As he approached, he could hear the English woman and Samuel arguing about her not welcoming his son in, which to him was tantamount to a mortal sin, even if this was a tad hypocritical given, he hadn\u2019t helped Boris when he was a child. It wasn\u2019t long after this incident, and partly because of it, they divorced. However, maybe all wasn\u2019t as it seemed because a short while later, Samuel married for a third time. This time it was to a large German woman whom Boris seemed to like, which must have been a bit of a relief to Samuel, given his new policy on getting his kids\u2019 approval when it came to wives.<\/p>\n Samuel Rachailovich<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Boris, like so many soldiers after the war, found he was at a loss when it came to what to do next. He was unqualified, inexperienced and restless. At first, life became a series of exciting adventures, bouts of drinking, gambling and getting women to sleep with him. As hard as he tried, he wasn\u2019t prepared to fit into \u2018civvy-street\u2019, so, he joined a fun-fair and worked as a showman in a gambling tent.<\/p>\n If you\u2019ve seen the film Big Fish, you might think there\u2019s a similarity between my father\u2019s story and the main character\u2019s. The significant difference though is that Big Fish wraps itself around a love story, but I don\u2019t have one to share with you about Boris. Boris and I occasionally argue over whether I should give as much as I do when I love someone. It is an abomination for him to feel needy, let alone tell a woman about such feelings. Perhaps it was his dislocation from such feelings that made him so attractive to women. After all, it can be very off-putting to experience neediness in another, as I\u2019ve often found out and still haven\u2019t learned to curtail. So, maybe it was the brief, fun, and non-entangling relationship Boris offered to most of his prey that drew them to him so readily, except of course, when things didn\u2019t go to plan, and they fell pregnant.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1946-48 – Moving On<\/b><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n The fun-fair work was seasonal, so Boris decided to join the merchant navy during the winter months, and for the next few years migrated back and forth between these two worlds.<\/p>\n In 1948, partly as reparations for the Arab anti-Semitic position throughout World War 2, and partly due to Zionist pressure on the League of Nations to find a solution to the \u201cJewish problem\u201d, along with a whole host of other factors, it was agreed to create the State of Israel.<\/p>\n The surrounding Arab States of Jordan, Syria and Egypt made it known they wouldn\u2019t tolerate this, so, as the date for Israel\u2019s independence approached tension mounted on all sides. Boris\u2019 brother Eliezer lived on a kibbutz in the middle of Israel and was also a member of the Palmach, a strike force set up in 1941 to protect Palestine from the Nazis by the British Military and Haganah. The British trained some of them as \u201cspecial operations soldiers\u201d to help the British invade Syria and Lebanon, but in 1942 the British victory at El-Alamein meant the Palmach was no longer of any use, so it was officially disbanded. As a result, the whole organisation went underground.<\/p>\n The call to arms came to Boris who jumped aboard the Danish-owned and Israel-bound ship, the Birkalandis, which was mainly a cargo ship but also carried 15 other passengers who also had the same intention. As soon as they arrived, they were all loaded onto a truck and taken to a camp. Within days, Boris was given the position of machine gunner, firstly on the back of jeeps but later in armoured cars.<\/p>\n Whatever one\u2019s position regarding Israel, one can\u2019t help but admire that in this instance the Israelis fought off a three-sided attack by opponents who seemed to have the upper hand.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 2005 – Research<\/b><\/p>\n I am around at Boris\u2019s drinking tea and writing notes about this time in his life. My partner and I have decided we ought to split up, so, I\u2019m spending more time with my family and using writing this as an excuse to go around more regularly than normal. \u201cFinally,\u201d I think, \u201cI can get some exciting war stories from Boris\u201d, but he\u2019s not having it. Next time I\u2019m going to bring a bottle of Scotch and some truth drugs!<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1946 – Boris and the Seamen Strike<\/b><\/p>\n After World War Two, Boris went back to the navy mainly bringing Jewish refugees to Israel from Morocco and Marseilles. While waiting on the docks Boris noticed that all the black Jews were being turned away from working on the boats. He\u2019d become involved in the Communist party in recent months, thinking that it might help his sister Batia who was trapped in Russia if he was seen as part of the system, and due to this involvement, he\u2019d become more aware of some of the social injustices around him. Watching these men being turned away left him seething with anger so he decided to do something about it.<\/p>\n Most of the waiters, cleaners and general dogsbodies on his ship were non-Jewish Italians, so, Boris spread a rumour about a possible attack by an anti-Semitic organisation on the route back to Israel. The casual staff thought better of the risks involved and didn\u2019t come to work on the departure date. When the ship got back to Israel Boris went straight to some of the local left-wing papers and got a few articles published calling for a demonstration demanding that black Jewish people should no longer be discriminated against by these companies. Within hours of publication, the local hotels were warned off letting Boris reside with them and told him so. As a result, Boris managed to wangle spending the next few weeks sleeping in the prostitutes\u2019 quarters.<\/p>\n When he told me this bit of the story I did wonder if this was all an elaborate tale to explain why he spent so much time with prostitutes during this period, but he showed me a few newspaper articles relating to this incident so just to be sociable I\u2019ll take his word.<\/p>\n Come the day of the demonstration he and a few hundred striking seamen started their protest. Two policemen approached Boris, both holding sub-machine guns at their waists pointing toward him. He walked up to them and filled with anger said in a hushed but vitriolic tone, \u201cYou can kill me but these guys all have long knives, and it won\u2019t be long before you feel one go through your back if you do!\u201d Their guns lowered slowly, and they backed off as one said, \u201cYou can have your say, but make sure there\u2019s no trouble.\u201d Soon afterwards a few black Jewish people started to be employed by the shipping companies involved. But for Boris, it was time to lay low, that\u2019s if you don\u2019t consider laying in the prostitutes\u2019 quarters low already, so he sailed to England. Nowadays, telling such a story would probably have levelled at it, \u2018white-saviour syndrome\u2019 but for Boris, that sense of injustice had come from his own experiences of being persecuted, rather than a need to feel virtuous while simultaneously diminishing the power of those he was trying to help. Remember, no good deed goes unpunished.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1952 – London at First Sight<\/b><\/p>\n When it came to London it was love at first sight for Boris. It was exciting, it was grimy, and it was full of potential, so it wasn\u2019t long after he arrived that he discovered a scam where he could use people he knew who worked in South Africa House to help him develop a \u201cfast-track\u201d system for those with the cash to not only get their immigration papers sorted but also a place on a boat. For this Boris would get the fee from the \u201cclients\u201d and a commission from the boat operators. A good little number, but the secret of a long life is knowing when it\u2019s time to leave, so, Boris cut his profits and took a ride upon a boat bound to Canada.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1940s – Canada<\/b><\/p>\n In just a few days upon arriving in Canada, Boris arrived in Nova Scotia, took a train to Montreal, found accommodation in a religious Jewish family house, and got a job in a factory. After week one the foreman sacked him for shoddy work so Boris went to the boss and gave him a sob story that his work was shoddy because he hadn\u2019t eaten for days so the boss gave him another chance. The factory was making parts destined to be used in the Korean war so it was working 24 hours a day. Boris came in on the night shift and watched how they did it. He asked how many of these items they\u2019d make in an hour and was told about 20. So when Boris was creating 28 per hour by the end of his first \u201ceducated\u201d day he got a sharp warning from his fellow workers. Ever the communist, Boris thought, \u201cFuck them, I need the dough\u201d and compromised a bit by dropping down to 26 units per hour. At the end of the week, he was called into the boss\u2019 office. \u201cWhat now?\u201d he thought, but to his surprise, he was given a pay rise and an apology from the foreman who sacked him in the first place. Needless to say, Boris still wasn\u2019t popular with his workmates.<\/p>\n It was a bad winter; work relations were frosty, and his hosts were not much warmer. Boris would lie in bed at night and could hear:<\/p>\n \u201cMary, you like it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t bother!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMary, you like it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t bother.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMary, you like it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, I like it\u201d<\/p>\n Boris laughed and blew smoke rings up to the ceiling.<\/p>\n After a few months, Boris realised he didn\u2019t like working in the factory anymore and decided it was time to sail off into the sunset.<\/p>\n He noticed an Israeli ship was coming into the local port and needed a qualified oiler, (whatever that is), so Boris contacted the boat company and made his way to meet it, but the ship was nowhere to be found. Boatless and cold Boris looked through the telephone directory and called a local Rabbi. He told him that there was a boat coming in a few days which was the first to come to this port from Israel and what a wonderful gesture it would be to throw a welcome party for them. The Rabbi, probably feeling somewhat cornered agreed. Boris met up with, befriended and lodged with him for the few days wait.<\/p>\n When the boat arrived it only had a few Israelis aboard, the rest were English, however, the gesture didn\u2019t go unnoticed, and Boris had in the process ingratiated himself with his new crewmates. One of them, the boson, was a black Jew whom Boris had previously got a job for, but as he went to greet Boris, Boris put his finger to his mouth because he also recognised the chief purser as someone he\u2019d antagonised during the strike. The Purser half-recognised Boris but couldn\u2019t place him at first but a few days later he did and immediately telegraphed ahead that he was on the boat.<\/p>\n Boris was in the engine room when the boat pulled into Haifa. Four police officers came down and started to arrest him, but Boris informed them that because he was sailing on Canadian Articles, they couldn\u2019t arrest him until he was on shore. In fact, he told them to fuck off, but he did present a good legal case as well.<\/p>\n He was put on open arrest and the shipping company boss came to see him to ask what he was up to. He explained that he didn\u2019t intend to cause any trouble, so an amnesty was agreed.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Advert Break<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n For ducking, diving and boat engine driving $2000<\/i><\/p>\n For high productivity and low popularity $1000<\/i><\/p>\n For having a party thrown in your honour and for standing up to the boss.<\/i><\/p>\n Priceless and jobless.<\/i><\/p>\n End of Advert Break<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Leaving South Africa<\/b><\/p>\n With an adventure under his belt and a wad of money in his pocket, Boris flew to South Africa. If travel makes you look at your hometown with a different perspective that is especially true when there have been dramatic changes in the meantime. In the intervening years, South Africa had brought in Apartheid which essentially legalised racism. It came as quite a surprise to Boris who had suffered at the hands of anti-Semitic peers as both a youth and adult to suddenly find that he was part of the oppressive regime. In an attempt to make amends, Boris endeavoured to have sex with an equal number of women from all ethnic groups. This, however, did not go down well with the authorities.<\/p>\n One evening, Boris visited a black neighbourhood, got a bit drunk and started to make his way home alone. Ahead of him, two young black women were being noisy, laughing and shouting at boys. Then a small group of police officers turned towards them and one of them shouted, \u201cShut up you black bitch\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, don\u2019t talk to them like that!\u201d Boris retorted.<\/p>\n And within seconds the police officers started to beat Boris with their sticks. Even though being inebriated meant Boris didn\u2019t feel the full force of the law at that precise moment, he was bedridden for several weeks as a result of his injuries.<\/p>\n When Boris eventually came out to play again, he was preoccupied with this incident. So much so, that he decided to seek out his revenge. As it turned out though, it wasn\u2019t to be as calculated an affair as he\u2019d probably hoped for. Instead, just by coincidence, he saw the officer who\u2019d shouted at the women walking towards him down a side street. Boris ducked into an alleyway where he saw a metal bar and decided to make the best of a bad job. No one else was around so as the officer passed the alley Boris stepped out and smashed the bar across the back of the officer\u2019s head. Fortunately for Boris, the officer did not turn around and ask what he\u2019d done that for but conveniently dropped to the floor where Boris crashed the bar down upon his collar bone, which he heard a crack from and then hit him a third time across his back. Boris looked around for witnesses, but there didn\u2019t seem to be any, so, he walked away calmly.<\/p>\n Boris\u2019s eldest brother still lived in Johannesburg and was a minor celebrity as a long-distance (100 km) runner and jewellery shop owner. Also, Boris had become quite well known to the police when he worked in the fun fair as he\u2019d been the one bribing the police to let the fair gamble. The hot-headed and radical Boris knew he wasn\u2019t anonymous enough to get away with this act of retribution, so, he decided to go back to England.<\/p>\n He\u2019d often tell people he left South Africa because of Apartheid, but the fear of being prosecuted for attempted murder was the real one.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1914 John Smith Jnr \u2013 Fulham<\/b><\/p>\n After the letter arrived John\u2019s parents tried to hide the truth from the rest of the family, but it was obvious something bad was in the air, everything felt loaded with more than its own weight. The kids spoke amongst each other and surmised something may have happened to their older brother, but they knew that if he\u2019d been killed, they\u2019d have been told by now, so this left them a little perplexed.<\/p>\n Crookham Road was one of many that angled off Fulham Road, so consequently was generally a quiet residential street. But 4 days after the letter arrived the clatter of horses\u2019 hooves and the sound of a soldier giving orders in the early evening brought the family to the front room window where, given it was already dark, it was hard to make out what was going on. But what was now clear was two of the soldiers were marching up to the front door. John Snr and Susan, now filled with dread looked at each other. When the soldiers knocked on the door John and Susan took each other\u2019s hands and made their way to them.<\/p>\n As the door opened the soldiers took off their hats and asked if this was the residence of John Frederick Smith, father of John Frederick Smith. When John nodded, one of the soldiers asked if they could come to the cart to identify their son before the orderlies brought him in. John and Sarah looked at each other and almost knocking the soldiers off their feet bustled past and rushed down to what they hoped was their son. When they got to the man, they looked at him, his face was swollen and bearded and for a few seconds they wondered if there\u2019d been a mistake, but as the man opened his eyes he quietly said, \u201cMum, dad, what are you doing in France?\u201d Susan, crying now looked at the orderlies, \u201cYes, it\u2019s my son John. Please bring him in.\u201d As they did, Susan held his hand and talking to the cold winter night sky kept repeating, \u201cI knew he wasn\u2019t dead.\u201d<\/p>\n It would be a few days before John became strong enough to tell of what had happened, and of course, there was no explanation as to how he\u2019d become registered as missing in action, but his last memories from the battlefield included being shot, falling into the mud and a German soldier approaching him. He thought he was just about to be killed but instead, the soldier, who was tall and had a big beard, helped him get comfortable, gave him some water and took one of his dog tags with him when he left.<\/p>\n \u201cI couldn\u2019t understand a word he was saying, but I knew he didn\u2019t want to hurt me. I don\u2019t think he wanted to hurt anyone. And\u2026 and when I realised that at that very moment, I knew I didn\u2019t want to hurt him either. If I could have, I\u2019d have shaken his hand and hugged him in thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n John Snr interrupted, \u201cI\u2019m sorry to tell you son, but I think he might be dead. They found your dog tag on his body and that made them think you\u2019d been killed.\u201d<\/p>\n John Jr pushed his tongue under his bottom lip and barely able to speak, whispered, \u201cI owe him my life.\u201d<\/p>\n Susan stroked his forehead, \u201cWe\u2019ll always be thankful for his kindness John, and we\u2019ll say a prayer for him every night for the rest of our lives. We’ll never forget him.\u201d<\/p>\n John Jr nodded, bit his lip, and furrowed his brow.\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n My Grandfather, John Frederick Smith<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n End of Chapter 2<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/simonsdiary.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/09\/Boris-as-a-child-254x300.png\")
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