I had many good times during the two years I lived at Hinton Hall. The train ride from Wiltshire to Whitchurch took all day and I usually rode alone, but the countryside was peaceful and there were no air raids. Hinton Hall was a three-story brownstone building with numerous nooks and crannies that were a delight for boys to explore. Many things there were makeshift to serve as a school. Although I don’t remember much about specific classes, I do recall that my first year classroom had a working fireplace, unusual for a school. It added a homey feeling to the surroundings that I liked.
A few of us trapped rabbits on the grounds around Hinton Hall to supplement our diets, although we were never really hungry. Early in the morning we would charge out to see if we had caught anything, and if we had we would roast the meat on a spit over an open fire and enjoy the perception of ourselves as grown-up manly hunters.
A rabbi came to the school from London each week to provide us Jewish kids with religious instruction. I attended as a matter of course, but none of the teaching made much of an impression on me. I was at full attention, however, with some other events at the school held outside of regular classes. I recall great anticipation when Edvard Beneš, the Czechoslovak president in exile, honored us with a personal appearance, and, of course, there was endless preparation for this state visit. Beneš, a slight man, waved at us as he stepped out of his limousine and walked toward the stairs. We students were lined up on the grand stone staircase entrance, tense but ready to sing Czech folk songs for him, which we had rehearsed for weeks.
The Lewis family continued to live at Hinton Hall while we were there. The younger son, John, ran the farm, while his older brother, Bill, was in the British army. One of the persistent great mysteries at Hinton Hall was that small quantities of food were often disappearing. The kitchen was in the basement and food was transported to the dining room by means of a dumbwaiter. There was an intervening floor between the two and it was rumored that Mrs. Lewis would sometimes ease the chore of cooking dinner for her family by short stopping the loaded dumbwaiter and taking off already prepared morsels. Despite our detective work, we never found out if this was actually true.
Whitchurch was a small town about a forty-minute walk from Hinton Hall, and a group of us students would walk to town almost every Saturday. I loved to visit the bookstore, but since my financial resources were very limited, I was always tempted to help myself and several times actually walked away with some volume under my jacket. Eventually I was caught and after a severe lecture by the school principal I vowed to him and myself that I was cured of stealing for good.
At this time I got to know my brother somewhat better. Frank, who by then was in the Czechoslovak army, was stationed in Whitchurch for a brief period while completing his gymnasium diploma. It was fun to suddenly have him close-by, and I got to meet several of his army buddies, which made me feel very grown up. I was quite proud of Frank, especially when I saw him in his dress uniform. One Saturday as I was walking into town, I saw Frank at the roundabout outside of town, hitchhiking. I ran up to him, “Where are you going?” I asked.
“To Manchester.”
“Why?” I pressed.
A vague look came over Frank’s face and he remained silent as if he had forgotten I was there. After a pause he looked at me and responded evasively, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Naturally, my boy’s imagination took off in high gear, but something told me to drop the subject and I just said, “Well, I’ll see you.”
Although I was happy at Hinton Hall and doing well in school, Mother decided that as long as we were in England I should get a “proper” English education. She secured a scholarship for me at Fulneck Boys’ School located in Pudsey, Yorkshire, north of London between the cities of Leeds and Bradford. The school was operated by the Moravian Church, which is a small Protestant Christian denomination that pre-dates the Reformation. Founded in the aftermath of the burning at the stake in 1415 of Jan Hus, the Czech reformer, the Moravians grew substantially in number in Bohemia and Moravia, in the Czech Republic, until in 1620 the Catholic Counter-Reformation sent it underground. Its last bishop was John Amos Comenius, a celebrated educator known as the father of modern education. His book, Didactica Magna, advocated for universal education and introduced illustrated textbooks as well as logical thinking instead of rote memorization. For these concepts he was a candidate for the first presidency of Harvard College. The Moravian Church had a rebirth in the early eighteenth century in Saxony and its missionaries brought it to America.
In the fall of 1942, along with a boy who was already attending Fulneck, my mother saw me off on another train journey—this time a ride of five hours to Leeds. We transferred to a bus and were let off at the end of a long street that was the beginning of the Moravian settlement called Fulneck. The Moravians turned out to have a great influence on my inner struggles as a boy in England as well as on important later life decisions in America.
The Fulneck Moravian settlement was situated on a hill on one side of the main street opposite a row of little stone cottages. Further on three-story school buildings became visible. In the center of the complex was a structure with a small steeple, identifying it as the church—the focal point of the community. By descending a long, steep staircase, the girls’ school appeared on the left and the boys’ on the right. The only time we boys saw the girls was at special school performances held at the girls’ school and when the girls marched into the church on Sunday mornings. The boys always arrived ahead of the girls—so we were afforded a better view of them as they filed in and sat down. Some older boys liked to tell of clandestine visits to see the girls, their stories most likely richly embellished with wishful thinking. But we younger boys always gave them our rapt attention, believing everything we heard.
The next two years at Fulneck were for me happy and fulfilling. Academically and socially I learned and grew. We slept in a large unheated dormitory with four rows of beds and windows open wide even in winter. If a boy was next to a window, as I was for a time, the snow would settle on the thick layer of blankets on the bed. If one did not get up immediately when called, the prefect (an older student appointed to maintain order) would take the blankets and rip them off the bed in one stroke. The prefect had to rise early each morning in order to perform his sadistic duties at the right time and thoroughly.
We had certain privileges. Every Saturday we boys lined up on the sidewalk, and when the master (the teacher in charge) gave the signal, we all ran at top speed to the neighborhood candy store, about a block away, to spend our weekly allowance. Once there, I faced impossible decisions of my pre-diabetic days—what to buy? Should I get my favorite, a Milky Way, or several pieces of penny candy that last longer? Or perhaps a chocolate bar? Or toffees? I loved them all and wanted them all, but like the others I had only sixpence to spend. It was agony to figure out how to get the most and use up all the money, and there was a press of the other boys—all of us facing similar dilemmas. In our impatience it seemed to take ages to get waited on, and if I, or another, was still undecided, the shopkeeper would turn away to wait on someone who had made up his mind. She had to move fast with a mob in her store. Once finally outside with my loot, I would mentally taste the various flavors in my bag before choosing one and popping it into my mouth. The problem was always what to eat immediately and what to save for later. I reminded myself that my supply of delicacies had to last all week, until we reenacted the same ritual the following Saturday.
Students were allowed to walk into town, although there was little to do there. My special destination was the firehouse. I was working for a Boy Scouts merit badge in firefighting and part of the requirement was to become familiar with fire engines and firemen. The men treated me wonderfully and let me slide down the pole as they did when going to a fire. Although I could not accompany them on a real call, I loved to hang around the station and listen to the firemen’s shouts and chatter.
Sports were a daily part of each school day at Fulneck
. In the fall and winter we played field hockey and soccer outdoors in all kinds of weather. I hated field hockey but was passionate about football (soccer) and was proud to become a quite passable goalie. In the spring and summer it was cricket and tennis. But since cricket was so strange to me, nobody wanted me on their team; I was relegated to scorekeeper, where I was at least able to learn the rules of the game well. Since my days as a younger boy hanging around the courts in Prague, tennis had been the sport that captured my interest and that I was best at. I was particularly proud when on one occasion the masters invited me to play with them as they needed a fourth for doubles.
The teachers at Fulneck were numerically small for the hundred or so boys enrolled—but all are unforgettable to me. Mr. Shaw, the science teacher, was lanky, stern, and unsmiling but became a hero in our eyes when we learned that he had saved a boy’s life. The story circulated of how the boy unwittingly touched a downed power line and might have been electrocuted to death but for the quick thinking and instant action of Mr. Shaw who ran to him, took off the rubber boots he was wearing, and using them as gloves, with great difficulty extricated the frightened boy. The right teacher in the right place at the right time.
Then there was rotund Mr. Taylor, the headmaster, who seemed to us to be almost as wide as he was tall. Consistent with his round frame was a chubby face accentuated by puffy jowls and a ruddy complexion. We decided to christen him Tubby, an accurate moniker. But we were wary of Tubby as he often prowled the hallways and invariably discovered us if we were somewhere we were not supposed to be. I had respect for Tubby, though. I remember his broad smiling face when, at the end of the first school year, he handed me a book, The Oxford Book of Light Verse, the prize for “General Progress.” I felt honored and pleased that Mr. Taylor appeared genuinely proud of me.
But the most unforgettable faculty member at Fulneck was Mr. LaTrobe, who taught geography and French and was called Toby by all of us when he was out of earshot. He appeared ancient—at least ninety-five years old, we thought. Probably his disheveled appearance aged him; he always looked as if he had just rolled out of bed. His fly was frequently unzipped, to the amusement of all of us, and his pants were so baggy that we made bets on when they would fall off in class. Toby was essentially bald but for a few gray wisps that protruded from the sides of his head and appeared to be an extension of his large ears. We marveled at how his polished pate shone and how it contrasted with the disorder of the rest of him. For me Toby comes to mind whenever I see a production of Falstaff. But for all his oddities he knew his stuff, and he kindled within me a lasting interest in geography.
I also still recall the athletic figure of Mr. Basil MacLeavy who taught Latin. A tall, well-built man, he exuded an air of confidence. He always stood erect, shoulders back, with a stern expression on his uncreased face as he paced in front of us listening to our declensions and halting translations. Mr. MacLeavy displayed a more human, less forbidding face when a fourth player was needed for tennis doubles and I was recruited. On the court I witnessed Mr. M. get very angry each time he netted the ball, and I suspected that a word unfit to be uttered by a master might have escaped his lips.
My second year at Fulneck began with exciting news that kept us all abuzz. Two new faculty members had been added, and, in a break from the traditional all-male teaching staff, they were women. Both were young, and one, Miss Vera Black, the English teacher, became my favorite. I was impressed with her curly jet black hair, which framed a plain but kindly round face. Her distinguishing feature to me was her broad, sincere smile. Some of the boys were almost as tall as she and her rather plump figure accentuated her short stature. But infatuation on my part completely overcame any physical imperfections she may have had, and I looked forward to sitting by her side in the library as she corrected my essays. The library was a small room lined with books completely covering the walls. It had that unique and pleasing smell of old seasoned volumes. I often sat at one of the tables next to Miss Black as she showed me how to improve my prose and taught me the meanings of English words unfamiliar to me and unrelated to my native language. I even recall learning from her the difference between ‘reverberations’ and ‘repercussions.’ Later I learned that Miss Black married our Latin teacher and became Mrs. Basil MacLeavy, and that the couple moved to Jamaica and taught school there.
Report cards at Fulneck always included comments by the masters. Once my report card had the comment “Ivan tends to be morose.” I rushed to the dictionary to find the meaning of that word morose, as it was unknown to me. The definition was “gloomy or sullenly ill-humored.” Was that really me? I was stunned—this was not how I would have described myself, but I started to wonder about others and if they might also wrongly consider me morose. I continued to dwell on the comment, becoming temporarily depressed by it and then angry at what I considered an unwarranted observation. Thinking about the meaning of morose filled me with self-doubt, and the comment still rankles me today, seventy-plus years later. Over the years I have occasionally composed a defense in my mind against the master who wrote “tends to be morose”—as if we were in a court of law. I would begin by saying, “Consider that in the year 1943 a war was raging. I was separated from my parents, and my brother was in the army fighting our enemy. Many of my relatives, including my grandparents, remained in danger in German-occupied Czechoslovakia, and I had been forced to flee my homeland.” I would ask to be viewed as a boy with a lot on my mind. Was I ill-humored? I knew I was serious and I did feel somewhat out-of-place among all the English boys attending the school. I never minded being alone, though, and I was not a loner, having made several friends. I did my schoolwork conscientiously and I received the Book Prize for General Progress. Yes, I would admit to the Court, in those days I was dreadfully shy and thus often kept quiet because small talk, especially, was difficult. My present self would bring the Court up to date: “It took many years into adulthood to overcome shyness and gain self-confidence. Perhaps being an introvert made me appear to this teacher as moody. I would categorically reject the ‘morose’ label both then and now. I rest my case, your Honor.”
Every day at Fulneck we had to attend morning and evening prayers as well as two church services on Sunday. It was a routine that became increasingly meaningful to me. Gradually I began to feel that a higher power was in control of the world and that everything was ultimately going to turn out well. I found the thought comforting. At Fulneck I also found a community that accepted me and expressed care and concern even though its strict behavioral discipline was not always appreciated. After a year of religious exposure I wanted to be a part of this community. I discussed my desire to become a Christian with my parents. Although Mother gave me tacit approval, I could tell Father was strongly opposed. At the time I did not consider what a blow my adolescent independence must have been to my father, although I don’t recall that he openly conveyed his feelings to me. Perhaps he debated, even agonized, about whether to reproach me for what he was feeling, but he did not. I decided to go ahead anyway, received instruction, and was baptized on March 22, 1944. I distinctly did not consider this act a betrayal of my Jewish heritage. After all, I told myself, wasn’t Jesus a Jew? Under religious and academic tutelage at the Fulneck School in those formative years, I started to define the purpose for my life that I had been seeking. This yet-to-be-defined goal had less to do with my own desires but was more directed toward a broader outlook for a life that would focus on benefiting others.
On weekends we could obtain permission to visit families overnight. One weekend I was invited to the home of a family in Leeds whose name was Bull. I found my way there by means of a bus and trolley through dingy streets to the unpretentious house of these working people. On the way I passed the burnt-out remains of Kirkstall Abbey and was fascinated by the image of monks living and working there many centuries ago. The abbey ruins stood as a grim reminder of Henry VIII’s excesses, which we learned about in school. The Bull family had a boy my age, and we bec
ame good friends during my several visits. We played soccer with his pals and Whist (a card game) with the entire family participating in the evening. Without exception, members of the extended family were warm and friendly, and I realized how generous they were when Mrs. Bull passed me a plate with ten bacon strips and told me that was their weekly ration for the household. She clearly wanted me to feel like a member of her family.
Vacations posed a problem. What was a teenage boy to do on school vacations when there was no real home to return to? My parents were now living in London, in a rooming house during the war years, and I slept on a couch when I visited them. Even if that was an acceptable arrangement for a few days, what was I to do for two long summer months? Facing that situation I decided to pursue my interest in farming by volunteering to harvest crops in manpower-stressed England. I was only fourteen, but farms were short-handed and I hoped to be accepted as a farm worker.
Fortunately, my father knew someone at the Baťa Shoe Company, which had a factory and a farm in a rural part of the country. Baťa was a large shoe manufacturer that began in Zlín, in the Czech Republic and expanded to various parts of the world, including England and Canada. I took a train to the farm work destination and walked to a dormitory where I was to stay with other workers from the Baťa enterprise. I was assigned a small room all to myself, ate in the cafeteria, and each morning walked to the farm, where I was given a variety of assignments. My favorite task was to feed the animals—chickens, pigs, and especially horses, which I had become fond of tending at Battle House. Before supper I returned to the dorm, ate, and then what? I had time on my hands and there was nothing to do—no radio, no television, nothing. I read sometimes, but I could not do that for hours every evening. I was bored. I went on walks but found I was very lonely. With no one my age to pal around with, I was glad when that summer passed and I could return to school, to friends, and to a less self-focused, more eventful life.
My Train to Freedom Page 6