A Voyage Without My Father

By Dexter Moscow

A personal and social history of coping with parental loss spanning seven decades.

When Dexter Moscow was 10 years old, his father passed away. Dexter was not allowed into the hospital to say goodbye.

Dexter is seeking to help people who have experienced the death or loss of a parent when they were young. Hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Brilliance Publishing
• Release date: Jun 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781913770181

Book preview

THE OPENING SCENES

SCENE 1

Delivered In A Handbag

Ahandbag?

These iconic words uttered by Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde’s comedic play about marriage and the class system, The Importance of Being Earnest, were echoed by my brother Martyn, who at the advanced age of 7, firmly believed that I had indeed arrived in a handbag.

No, not a Gladstone bag left at Victoria Train Station as in the play, but a capacious black bag carried by the attending doctor, who was accompanied by a nursing midwife.

So, on a warm late September evening, in 1946 the hour fast approaching midnight, I made my appearance, and to Elkan and Hetty Moscow, a second son was born. Not within a palatial residence but in a little ground floor rented flat located in Palmers Green, North London. In a bag is the means of delivery, according to my brother, of how babies come into the world. No stork for me, just a handbag.

Martyn was born on a Saint’s day, 14th February in 1939, very close to the beginning of the Second World War, and I’m sure he was delighted not to have been called Valentine. I was the result of my father being demobbed and returning home to his loving family at the end of the war, having served in Egypt.

My birth was not heralded by trumpets, nor did a new star appear in the sky and there were no announcements in The Times, but the moment of my birth was greeted by my family with joy and celebration. Well at least my mum and dad; I’m uncertain if my brother felt such joy and elation!

When I was able to comprehend such matters, I was made aware that my delivery was uneventful and according to the doctor all the bits that should be in place, were. The truth, however, which I discovered when I was 15, painted a somewhat different picture, but more of that later.

For my mother, thankfully, the birth went very smoothly, this being here second such experience. She was not very tall, in her words, 5 foot nothing’, but pretty and vivacious. My father’s endearing name for her was Titch". It being a home birth, special care was taken of my mother before the doctor and midwife left to ensure that there were no complications.

As was normal at that time, regular visits from the midwife would take place, admirably and accurately depicted in the BBC TV series Call the Midwife. Designated visits to the post-natal clinic were arranged, all to ensure that mother and baby were in good health and that I was putting on the required weight.

In relation to that requirement, my only concern in those early months was to be fed when I demanded it, cleaned as and when I required it and left to sleep when I needed it.

Thankfully I was blissfully unaware of the impending assault on my yet-to-be fully formed senses and that of a certain area in the nappy region. Shortly after birth, usually 8 days following being thrust, or should I say pushed and pulled into the world, a Jewish boy child is required to enter into the ancient covenant of Abraham, that is, to be circumcised, a process that is also prevalent in Islam.

It is a procedure where a specially trained Jewish person, a mohel (which rhymes with boil), cuts away the foreskin of the penis and peels back the remaining layers. The resulting look gave rise to a very personally intrusive question from school chums of Are you a Cavalier or a Roundhead?, the latter being a graphic description given to a circumcised penis. The answer would determine whether I was Jewish or not and non-Jewish school friends could then determine whether the friendships would continue. Anti-Semitism was rife then, as it is now. Either that, or the questioner had an early interest in anatomy and the male appendage…

Coincidentally my maternal grandfather, who came to the UK from Russia, was a trained mohel. When he arrived in this country, being questioned at the border by an officious immigration officer, he became confused when asked for his family name. Mistakenly he thought he had been asked for his profession. Having a thick Russian accent, my grandfather offered his reply as ‘Mohel’, and the officer wrote down the name ‘Miel’.

As so often was the case, the immigration officers could not decipher the answers that were given by the heavy accented immigrants and names were given either as an approximation of what they believe they heard, or couldn’t be bothered to interrogate further.

Delivered In A Handbag

An apocryphal story tells how, when German Jews came to this country to escape Nazi persecution, already confused by the questioning process and fearful that they would be sent home, when asked by the immigration officials, What’s your surname? and What do you do for a living?, they couldn’t remember the phrases that they had been coached on.

Allegedly, their instinctive response was, Ich vergessen, (I’ve forgotten in German). The family name therefore became…Fergusson.

By the time of my circumcision, Papa Miel had long departed this world and was therefore not available to pick up the scalpel. I understand that the person who did was in fact a dentist. And so, as William Shakespeare wrote in Julius Caesar, I had experienced the unkindest cut of all. I don’t recall if it was painful or not, but I do know that it was about a year before I was able to walk.

These and other semi-humorous stories are told on the occasion of the circumcision called a Bris, or in Hebrew, a brit milah. It is a great reason to celebrate, which as with many Jewish festivals, involves drink, food and in Orthodox families, dancing.

It is said that the majority of Jewish celebrations and festivals can be defined by three elements: They tried to kill us, we prevailed, let’s eat!

Humour offers a release of tension to lighten the mood at what can be a stressful time for the father, mother and grandparents. Most men, when witnessing a baby boy’s manhood being assaulted, although never actually remembering the moment of their own circumcision, display a wince and a sympathetic twinge.

Another such semi-humorous story told at these times is of a man who enters a public toilet and whilst standing at the urinal, is asked by the man standing next to him, Was your circumcision carried out by Mr Polokoff?

Yes, how did you know?

Well, Polokoff always cut on the cross and you’re peeing on my foot!’

It is said that circumcision is the height of optimism, as before a man knows how long it is going to be, he has a bit cut off!

Not sure about being optimistic but up until the age of 10, my life could not have been happier. However, the loss of my father changed all of that.

SCENE 2

Memories Of A Family:

A Mother, A Father, And

Filial Relationship

My father had served in the deserts of the Middle East and in Cairo with the Royal Artillery, part of the Eighth Army, commanded by Montgomery. Fighting in these dangerous locations, he regaled us with stories of near-death experiences. One particular one he oft repeated was how, having served his stint on guard duty, the next person to take up his position lit a cigarette and was promptly shot by a German sniper. Even in those unenlightened times, cigarettes could serve to kill you.

It highlighted a story that I had heard before. It was a cautionary tale called Three On a Match (also known as Third On a Match or Unlucky Third Light). It is a purported superstition among soldiers during the Crimean War right through to World War II. The superstition goes, that if three soldiers lit their cigarettes from the same match, one of the them would be killed, or that the man who was third on the match would be shot.

The first light would alert the sniper, on the second light he would take aim, and on the third light, he would fire the deadly round. Since then it has been considered bad luck for three people to share a light from the same match. This superstition has become part of popular Western culture in films, novels and other art forms.

Elkan in Palestine

Thankfully, my Dad returned from the war to his family unscathed, for had he not, I wouldn’t be here to tell my tale.

I have few memories of my father but those I do have, are those of a man who loved his children and gave as much of his time to us as possible. He was a big man beloved by many, who chain-smoked (a contributory factor to his early demise), was a drummer and trumpet player and, as I found out in later life, a respected Mason.

Dad was a hugger. One of my abiding memories of him was whenever he had the opportunity, he would draw me close and hug me. It made me feel safe and loved and this tradition I have carried through to my own children, now men, and my grandchildren, much to their annoyance on occasions.

The feelings that my father’s love engendered in me have stayed very much alive, even if the images of him have faded overtime. What fleeting images I do have, are of me cuddling up between my mother and him in a huge bed, or so it appeared to me as a child, and listening to the noises coming from his nose as he slept, a cross between Mickey Mouse and a demented thrush!

A sense of smell is closely linked with memory, probably more so than any of our other senses. Smells evoke particular memories and the faint odour of cigarette smoke that pervaded his dressing gown, even now takes me back to that happier time.

He was a man who loved people and was liked by all those that came into contact with him. This served him well as a ‘Tallyman’ or ‘credit trader.’ A tallyman was the equivalent of a travelling salesman, filling his car with an assortment of goods from household linens, shoes and work boots, to cleaning cloths, dresses and trousers.

He would travel on his ‘rounds’ on the council estates around East London and sell his goods on the ‘never-never’ hence the description ‘credit trader’. This allowed people who were short of money to buy immediately and pay an agreed amount each week. These payments were normally collected on a Friday night, because that was when people got paid.

The amount he received varied depending on people’s ability to pay and was usually about a half a crown or 2 shilling and sixpence in old money.

After the war, he once again took up his job as a tallyman but although he returned unscathed, his rounds in East London had not. The bombing of London had devastated the area, being so close to the docks, and many of his customers had either died or had their homes reduced to rubble. So he had to start all over again. Money was short, rationing was in place, and people were worried about merely existing, let alone buying things. However, with so many possessions being lost in the bombing, families had to restock.

This was a tough, thankless job, full of rejection as, like the rent man, when my father came to collect his money, people would hide behind their curtains, not answer or send a child to open the door to tell him, Mum’s out and Dad’s down the boozer!

My father, unlike his brothers, was not a hard-headed business man and the sob stories he encountered often meant that he would extend his customers’ credit terms. This in turn put pressure on our family’s finances and

Elkan Moscow, The Tallyman -

Collecting payment for goods on the ‘never-never’.

I’m sure that money worries were another contributory factor to his early demise.

If there were money worries, my brother and I certainly were not aware, nor did it impact us. We always were well-dressed, well-fed, and enjoyed treats. This may well have been due to my mother’s careful housekeeping. She was a great cook, elegant and an indomitable figure, fiercely protective and proud of ‘her boys’, My Marty and My Dekkie.

Born and bred in Bristol to an Orthodox Jewish family, she and her sister Sarah (Sessy) couldn’t wait to get to

London. Blonde-haired and beautiful, she had met my father on a bus. Dashingly charming and handsome, sporting a small moustache, à la Clark Gable, which was the fashion of the day, he swept her of her feet.

Henrietta Miel weds Elkan Moscow circa 1930s,

a very Russian looking celebration.

Dad was very highly regarded in his local community. He was a stalwart of his synagogue’s social committee, and after his death as a sign of respect, a stained-glass window was dedicated to him and the work he had carried out, with my mother at his side.

My brother and I were often the beneficiary of the social events that Mum and Dad organised for the synagogue. I still remember the baskets made from delicious peanut brittle full of sugared almonds or some such exotic delicacy that was presented to us, the morning following the social event or possibly a Masonic Ladies’ Night.

Other triggers to my memories are evocative sounds such as the rustling of my mother’s taffeta evening dress (the fashion in the early 1950s), as she bent over our beds to kiss us goodnight. Also, the smell of my mother’s perfume and my father’s aftershave imbedded in my childish senses but assailing my nostrils one again in adult life. It always amazes me how smell can bypass the processes of our brains and take us right back to that specific moment.

I have vague recollections of actually attending a synagogue social event where Eve Boswell, who was a British singer in the 1950s, performed as the cabaret and then came to sit at our table. She wore a dress hung with what appeared to be red rubies and I was absolutely smitten.

On the same bill was a comedian named Mickey Katz, father of Joel Grey. (Joel attained fame as the seedy Emcee in Cabaret on Broadway and in the film with Liza Minnelli.)

Mickey joined our table too but to our great disappointment, was sour-faced and lacking in any humour whatsoever. There is a phrase, ‘never meet your heroes’ and on this occasion, it was right.

My father was my hero. He had come back from the war, picked up the pieces of his business and did his best for his family. Absolutely devoted to each other, my father and mother shaped my understanding of what married life should be: a lifetime commitment.

Dad was a true cockney and as required, was born within the sound of Bow Bells. His voice, however, belied his heritage and was soft and cultured. Mum was Bristolian which meant with her West Country accent, she rolled her Rs, a language trait I adopted, so much so, that when I went to school, teachers would ask, Have you had elocution lessons?

No, said I. My mother comes from Bristol.

Concerning accents, I remember various friends of the family coming to visit us in our modest home. They were people with strange accents and foreign-sounding names. One particular couple stick in my memory; Maurice and Helen Glazer, who had come from Germany after the war to make their home in