A CHESHAM EVACUEE

Not the least of the traumas which World War II brought was the evacuation of Londoners to safe areas in the country. To be suddenly uprooted from one's home environment, family and friends was very frightening to all, but especially to young children.

Following two abortive attempts to leave London, one in 1939 the other in 1940, each time taking only our nightclothes and Sabbath candlesticks, my parents decided in the height of the Blitz, January 1941, that we had taken enough of nightly bombing and shelter life and that they, my sister Myrtle, aged four, and myself, aged nine, should try once more to leave London for safer surroundings. We travelled to the small town of Chesham in Buckinghamshire, suggested by my father for no reason other than he had been evacuated there for a short time as a young boy in the First World War.

We arrived at the billeting office early in the afternoon and were told to go across the road to number 26 Blucher Street, where a bachelor named Harry Mayo had agreed to take in a family of evacuees. With trepidation we knocked on the door and were surprised when the door was opened directly into the living room, no hall or entrance at all. We introduced ourselves and Mr Mayo invited us in and showed us around the house.

There was the small, room we had just entered, which led into another of similar size which then led into a scullery. Mr Mayo said we could occupy the front room which was furnished with an antique circular walnut table and lour chairs, a pair of Victorian 'Mother and Father' chairs and a love seat — I was too young to appreciate the beauty of this furniture. To my delight there was also a piano in figured walnut with cold candelabra and a matching stool to hold music. Mr Mayo would use the second room and we were to share the scullery.

Very soon my sister and I began to call our host 'Uncle Harry'. He appeared quite elderly to us, but I realize now he was then in his late fifties. Over the years which followed we became his family, he became our beloved uncle, and we were proud of the way a single gentile man and a traditional Jewish East End family learned lo live together in such difficult and trying circumstances. At Passover Uncle Harry ate matzos, the unleavened bread which Jewish people eat for this week long festival, on Sabbath he enjoyed 'kneidlach' a delicious matzo meal dumpling in chicken soup, which he insisted on eating with a knife and fork and not with a spoon as we had always done. He even fasted with us for 25 hours on Yom Kippur because he thought it would be unfair for him to eat when we were not permitted to. The fast is difficult enough, but alas on one occasion he began his with bacon and so suffered an unbearable thirst all day, but stubbornly refused to give in and waited to break his fast with us on some more conventional Jewish cooking.

At Christmas it was our turn to join in and with much excitement we accepted invitations to join with Uncle Harry's family for Christmas Supper. Food rations had been stored and food points saved to provide enough to give us all a good meal and for the first time Myrtle and I were introduced to the traditions of mince pies, Christmas puddings, Christmas trees and home made Christmas crackers. We played games, sang songs and danced the St. Bernard's Waltz, Military Two-step and The Lancers, it all seemed a long way from the constant air raids, bombings and shelter life we had left behind.

As we evolved into our daily life we learned much about each other. Uncle Harry was a talented amateur artist and painted country garden scenes and vases of flowers which he copied from the covers of chocolate boxes. Hi.- pride and joy was a copy he had painted of the 'Laughing Cavalier . We were fascinated watching him and learning the mysteries of mixing oil paints and the care needed to paint in watercolours. He introduced me to the joy of looking at paintings and my family have several of his, which they treasure.

His shaving routine, which took place in his downstairs room, was a daily ritual. He used an open 'cut-throat' razor and sharpened it on a leather strop, lathered his face and then carefully scraped off his beard. Myrtle and I watched with awe, afraid to speak or move in case we distracted or jogged him and very relieved when the razor was washed and placed in its little plush velvet box until the next day.

If the sun was shining and we were not at school. Uncle Harry would take a day off work from his job as a furniture upholsterer and he, Myrtle and I would go on a picnic when we would collect berries, fir cones and wild flowers to press when we got home. He spent hours reading to us and helping us with our school homework and on special days let us read from his set of encyclopaedias.

He encouraged me to learn to play the piano and, in the early days, supervised my practice hours with patience and tact . Sometimes he gave us his sweet coupons when the ration was two ounces per person per week, and every Friday he gave us 6d each pocket money. This practice continued until the week I was married in June 1953, by which time I was twenty years old and the pocket money had increased to 2/6.

We learned to love country life and were happy at school, hut constantly concerned about my grandparents in London. When the bombing worsened they began to visit us for short breaks and Uncle Harry would insist that he slept on the floor downstairs to give them the luxury of a good night's rest. He became the greatest of friends with my Grandmother and Grandfather — Mamma and Zeida, although they spoke very little English and he no Yiddish, and he showed no surprise when my very orthodox Grandmother arrived with her own pots, pans, crocks and cutlery because she didn't trust us to be kosher enough for her requirements.

We joined in all traditional local events, fairs and garden fetes and all wartime fund-raising efforts such as 'Salute The Soldier Week', and then, in May 1945, it was all over — Victory in Europe. We joined the singing, cheering throngs 'round the war memorial in the centre of town, but returned to find Uncle Harry crying — unhappy because we, his family, would soon be returning to our own house. We promised to stay until school started in September and assured him that he would always be our dearest friend, whether we lived with him or not — so began another era of our friendship.

With mixed feelings we returned to London and from the first week Uncle Harry began a pattern of visiting us every Thursday. Always a bad traveller, he would journey by train from Chesham to Baker Street and often walk from Baker Street to our home in Tulse Hill, South London, a distance of some eight or nine miles, but never, ever complained. Myrtle and I would rush home from school, always anxious to see him, and on my Father's return from business, dinner was a lively meal exchanging the week's news and gossip, and together looking through the weekly 'Bucks Examiner' which he always brought with him. After dinner we would pack him a bag of home — made cake, bread pudding and anything else we thought he would enjoy, and 'en famille' we would escort him to the bus stop for the return journey to Baker Street.

He was an honoured guest at my wedding and thoroughly enjoyed the synagogue service and traditional Jewish meal and festivities which followed, as can be seen on the treasured photographs in my album. Following my marriage yet another pattern evolved, now he visited my parents' home for lunch and tea and they all came to my home for dinner, something from which he derived as much pride as my parents. About every third year Uncle Harry came -o London for the express purpose of buying a new hat; and the entire family would accompany him to the local Dunn's Hat Shop where he would take ages choosing a new hat which looked exactly the same as the one he was discarding— a dark brown trilby.

As the years passed and he was ageing he visited us less frequently, once a fortnight, then once a month, and during his last few years only occasionally when he would stay overnight, but contact was maintained by long and frequent letters, which he wrote with a steady hand in spite of advancing years and failing eyesight, and occasional visits to Chesham from me and my family.

From my first year of marriage I sent him a food parcel every Christmas and immediately after the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur in the Autumn I would begin to collect food for 'Uncle Harry's Christmas Hamper'. Each week I purchased a few items and I had many embarrassing moments in shops and supermarkets on meeting my Jewish friends when paying for tins of ham and spam and pork — all explanations sounded feeble. The hamper grew larger each year containing, in addition to tinned foods, biscuits, tea, chocolates, sweets and jam, of which he was passionately fond. As we raised our own family, handkerchiefs, socks, ties and small gifts made were added from them — Christmas 1975 was no exception and the hamper was larger than ever.

In January 1976 Uncle Harry's nephew telephoned to inform us that just before Christmas Uncle Harry had been run over by a car on his way to visit his niece in hospital. The injuries were fairly minor, but after two weeks of being unwell Uncle Harry had died that morning, he was 94 years old. He had always said that he did not believe in the Church, he was not even sure that lie believed in God but lie was without doubt the truest Christian I have ever met.

Mv mother and I travelled by train to Chesham for the funeral — the town seemed smaller, the hills not so steep as when I was a child, and memories came flooding back.

Uncle Harry's family welcomed us, knowing we shared their grief and had arranged for us to travel in the first car and sit in the front row in the chapel. It was difficult for me to believe that I would never see Uncle Harry again, he had been an important part of my life for so many years.

The Vicar's moving eulogy reminded us that Uncle Harry's life had had great quality, and then it was all over, no more talking, no more flowers, no more Uncle Harry.

We returned to his nephew's home for tea and, as is customary on these occasions, the talk was of the past and the life we had led as London evacuees in Chesham. Then we were driven to the station and traveled home by train to London — we would never return. We had no reason to.

The following day my mother, sister and I each received a letter from Uncle Harry's Solicitor with a small bequest and an accompanying letter — the letter read:

'A very small token of my very great affection'.