Page 17 - Kol Bogrei Habonim - Autumn 21

GETTING HOOKED take long before we were unceremoniously
ARYEH EPSTEIN
I Notting Hill shul. Serial transfer
t all happened by default and
– let's admit – a smattering of
decisions. When you're very
young and don't have a mind of
your own, things just happen.
You get invited to the birthday
party of a boy you don't know,
just because your parents and his
are old friends. Parties can spell
the beginning of friendships – the
kind that can last a lifetime.
Others can be ghastly if, for
example, the little girl sitting next to you at
the table suddenly emits copiously all over
your legs. Even if you're five, the memory
sticks.
But Jonny's party was super, slap-bang in
mid-WW2. There weren't too many kids and,
despite his being seven years old and me just
five, we got off to a great start: friends for
life, to quote a singer we know. Hooked for
all time. I became partner, or to be precise,
accomplice to Jonny's escapades, some of
which made Max and Moritz look benign.
Then, one Sunday, days after he'd locked his
grandma in the garden loo for an hour or two,
Jonny dragged me off to a Habonim meeting.
(I can still hear his poor grandma's desperate
cries and her banging on the door. He was
punished, but I got away with a reprimand.)
Jonny was ten by this time, I was eight. His
parents and uncles had been very prominent
members of Habo. I was still far too young
for camp.
Our Habo meetings were initially held in the
cellar of Bayswater Synagogue, but it didn't
17
chucked out and moved five stations down
the line to Shepherd's Bush shul, for an even
shorter period, before moving to
victims. I have a fair idea why;
maybe you can guess. Whatever,
I became hooked on London
Transport commuting by age nine
– kids were pretty independent
then.
My first Habo camp was in '47, in
a romantic-sounding place, Stoke
Park, not far from Northampton.
My parents were probably glad
for ten days of peace and quiet. However, I
couldn't wait to be back home. I cried from
the first day onwards. Just picture it: we had
to bring almost everything with us, from a
palliasse duvet to cutlery. The palliasse we
had to fill with straw in which was concealed
a high proportion of thistles. That first day I
managed to lose all my cutlery save a dessert
spoon. It was swiped, more than likely.
Jonny wasn't much help in consoling me, and
our Madricha hadn't been trained to deal
sympathetically with spoilt children. Then, to
cap it all, when most parents came to visit and
"enjoy" our play-acting and singing, mine
didn't show up at all. Yet another reason to
blubber, right? So, I decided to play truant
and stow away on the visiting parents' bus.
But that plan went askew when Jonny caught
me surreptitiously packing my bag and called
the Madricha. So, I had to bear another three
agonising days. Then I had the idea of
making a run for it through the woods around
the camp site, trekking my way to the station
during our after-lunch rest. However, that
wood was home to wildlife and my foray into