WILL I SEE YOU TOMORROW?: A BIOGRAPHICAL NOVEL

By Colin Lederman

My name now is Max Fine. My parents named me Maxwell so for many years I was known as Maxwell Feinstein.

Whilst sitting on my balcony, observing the sun slip away slowly below the horizon, I ruminate about my past life and how much longer I have in this world.

I was born in South Africa to German Jewish parents after the family escaped from Germany in 1936.

I am writing this book as my ultimate legacy. I am dying from a severe case of congenital heart disease for which there is no cure. Only a heart transplant can save me. At my age?

I have my thoughts and memories. Both are fully functional but may be somewhat fanciful.

The story is about my family and me. I retell some events that happened (or at least that I believe happened) over several generations. Naturally, I was not present at every event so, to that extent, these are either hearsay or my interpretational memories.

I make no apology for spending time on my gap year before attending university since it was one of my most enjoyable times, if not the best. I was a naïve 17-year-old, seeing the world for the first time. In those few months, I became a man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Aug 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662914584

Book preview

AUTHOR’S BIOGRAPHY

Colin Lederman (also known as Lord of Ashton) was born in London, England, in 1937.

(Lord of Ashton is a Manorial Title. It relates to a village in Northamptonshire, England. The title has been in existence since the Magna Carter in 1066.)

He is a retired Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Accountants in England and Wales, having practised assiduously for almost 60 years in London, England, and Netanya, Israel.

He has a doctorate in Business Administration, and at the age of 70, he obtained a bachelor’s degree in Metaphysical Science.

This book is his first novel, written at the mature age of 84 during the raging Covid-19 epidemic. His chief hobbies include oil and acrylic painting, writing song lyrics and rhyming verses for family occasions.

A family man, married for sixty years to his dear wife Jill, both of whom enjoy their two children, nine grandchildren and twelve great-granddaughters - so far.

INTRODUCTION

My name now is Max Fine. My parents named me Maxwell so for many years I was known as Maxwell Feinstein.

Whilst sitting on my balcony, observing the sun slip away slowly below the horizon, I ruminate about my past life and how much longer I have in this world.

I was born in South Africa to German Jewish parents after the family escaped from Germany in 1936.

I am writing this book as my ultimate legacy. I am dying from a severe case of congenital heart disease for which there is no cure. Only a heart transplant can save me. At my age?

I have my thoughts and memories. Both are fully functional but maybe somewhat fanciful.

The story is about my family and me. I retell some events that happened (or at least that I believe happened) over several generations. Naturally, I was not present at every event so, to that extent, these are either hearsay or my interpretational memories.

Some words or phrases in the book may not be politically correct currently, but were normal when spoken at the time.

I make no apology for spending time on my gap year before attending university since it was one of my most enjoyable times, if not the best. I was a naïve 17-year-old, seeing the world for the first time. In those few months, I became a man.

The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either remain products of my imagination or used fictitiously. Every so often, I refer to factual historical events, places, or medical matters. There is an appendix at the end of the book, so my reader can gain more information about those subject matters, should you wish to.

AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to thank my eldest granddaughter, Chloe Verstandig Nagar. She undertook to read the initial draft and gave me constructive comments. During the rewriting of the book, I frequently gave her reworked drafts of various chapters. She read them and commented on them without complaining (at least not to me).

I wish to acknowledge the comments and advice given to me by my brother Joe Lederman, some of which I have incorporated into the book.

My gratitude to Sarah Linn. I have taken extracts from Sarah Linn’s article entitled ‘Think Pink: The Madonna Inn, San Luis Obispo’s Kitsch Castle.’

(At the time of writing this book, Sarah Linn was the arts and entertainment editor of The Tribune in San Luis Obispo, California. She shares her insights on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram at @SheLikestoWatch.)

Finally, I dedicate this book to my wife Jill, for allowing me to ignore her for extended periods while writing this book.

PART ONE

THE BEGINNING

THE VERDICT

It was 10 a.m. Wednesday, 23 November 1955. The sky was cloudless. The sun shone through a stained glass window casting a kaleidoscope of colours onto the courtroom floor. It was oppressive, a freak heatwave threatening to be one of the year’s most scorching days. Just the day to avoid sitting in court.

I was 17 years old, and the school term had ended the previous day. It was the first time I had been in a courtroom in Cape Town, South Africa. It was the first time I had been in any courtroom.

Beechwood panelling covered all four walls. Even the doors were of beech wood. Looking around, I felt as if I were in an enormous wooden box. Two over-sized fans suspended from the vaulted ceiling were slowly revolving, one at the room’s front and the other behind where we were sitting. Three black padded leather chairs stood on a raised wooden platform located at the courtroom’s front. The centre chair was larger than the other two and trimmed with gold. The judge would sit on the middle chair flanked by two assessors. Space between counsels’ table and the bench, where the courtroom clerk and reporter sit, are out of bounds to both lawyers and the public.

In severe criminal cases before the High Court (like murder), the judge may select two assessors to assist him. Assessors are typically advocates or retired lawyers. They sit with the judge during the court case and listen to all the evidence presented to the court. At the end of the case, they offer the judge their opinion. Judges do not have to accept the assessors’ views, but it usually aids them to come to a decision. The assessors may comment solely on facts, not on the law, which remains the judge’s responsibility. Neither attorney nor defendants go near the bench unless they ask for and receive the judge’s permission. I recognise these facts since I have been studying court procedures at school. I want to enter into the judicial profession, and if I get to university, I will study law.

My eyes focused on a door behind the podium. I had read the judge’s chambers are behind it. A judge and the attorneys may arrange a conference in those rooms during a trial or other procedure. A large South African flag hung on the wall behind the podium. It included three horizontal bands of orange, white and blue, with three miniature flags - the Union Jack to the left, the vertical version of the flag of the Orange Free State in the centre and the flag of the South African Republic to the right - centred on the white band. There were two rows of seats in a box to the left of the podium. Twelve jurors sit in these rows during a trial. Naturally, the jury box remains empty during nonjury proceedings.

A 1954 amendment to the nation’s criminal code established that all trials would occur without a jury unless an accused person was requesting one. It was then the Minister of Justice’s decision whether or not to oppose the request. On the advice of Jack Cottrell, the court-appointed lawyer, my father Josef Feinstein had declined the opportunity to request a trial by jury. The majority of a jury in Cape Town would almost certainly have been Afrikaners. That would have been a disaster for my father, as the boy who died was himself an Afrikaner.

At the rear of the courtroom, a partition or bar separated the public area from the rest. My mother was sitting next to me on the hard wooden bench in the front row. As I looked around the room, members of the public, mainly Afrikaners, were crowded behind us. An Afrikaner is a white South African who speaks Afrikaans and is of Dutch descent - known for their love of biltong (dried meat), rugby, and walking around barefoot in summer. You can easily spot Afrikaners because they will be the only ones wearing shorts and flip-flops in winter. They are also relatively substantial compared to South Africans of British descent. I also observed several Jewish men standing in the corner of the room to the left of me. I recognised most of them from our synagogue.

The crowded benches behind me caused such a kafuffle that I could not quite comprehend what they were saying. Afrikaans is a language that I knew very well, but they were unintelligible because the voices echoed in the room. The court clerk went to investigate and try to calm the situation down before the judge and the assessors entered the court. Despite summoning a police officer to assist, it took several minutes for them to do so.

My dear father was in a holding cell overnight following the summing up by his defence counsel. He was about to be escorted back into the courtroom by the bailiff to hear the judge’s verdict.

My beloved mother and I waited anxiously. Presently, the communicating door on the right side of the courtroom opened, and I observed father being hustled into the court by a dark-skinned man in police uniform. At about 1.95 meters (6-foot 5 inches) tall, he towered over my father as he forced him into the three-sided wooden witness box.

Father looked awful. He had invariably been a dapper, well-dressed man, 1.70 meters (5-foot 7 inches) tall with a round olive-coloured face, a portly figure with jet-black well-groomed hair and a black well-trimmed moustache. I was genuinely shocked to observe him dishevelled and apparently exhausted. He had shed considerable weight during his three months’ detention in Robben Island Prison awaiting trial. His face was sallow and drawn, and his unkempt hair was turning grey. I noticed father’s deep sunken eyes as he looked towards us and then bowed his head, staring pensively at the floor. My mother gasped, and as I glanced at her, I saw tears running down her face. I clasped her hand and squeezed tightly.

Robben Island lies just over eleven kilometres (seven miles) off Cape Town, in the heart of Table Bay. Popularly known as the Alcatraz of South Africa, it was home to some 1,500 long-term prisoners. A waterless, dry patch of land surrounded by shark-inhabited waters, it has been utilised by South African Governments in the past, alternately as a place of exile for defeated African chiefs, as a leper colony, as a defence establishment, and in the last few years as a maximum-security prison for violent criminals.

The court clerk was sitting in front of the podium. His stern sallow face was concentrating on the documents in front of him. His functions included ensuring the courtroom is ready for the daily schedule. These included calling witnesses and defendants into court, directing witnesses to take oaths, and keeping public areas disciplined and under control. He stood up and called out:

All rise. Judge Tizzard is presiding.

All present stood. The door at the rear of the podium opened, and in filed three men. The judge sat in the broad middle chair, and the two assessors sat down on either side of him. Everybody in the courtroom then sat except for my father and the Jews in the corner, who stayed standing. The judge, draped in a black gown, steely eyes, slender straight nose, and square jaw, spoke:

This has been a complex and unfortunate case. An adolescent boy has forfeited his life, and the prosecution has put forward a compelling case. The prosecution witnesses have been most reputable. The young boy presented himself admirably. As for the defence, they relied on one witness. Doctor Zimmerman, an eminently qualified scientist who was also highly commendable. The accused chose not to give evidence, and one can read much into that fact. Nevertheless, we have to decide on the balance of evidence presented in court, whether Mr Feinstein is guilty or not of first-degree murder. The prosecution did not offer an alternative charge to the court for consideration. However, he continued, it is the opinion of this court that the prosecution did not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Josef Feinstein was guilty of premeditated murder. I also rule out ‘dolus eventualis,’ that is to say, common murder.

(Dolus Eventualis is a legal concept in South Africa that focuses on a person held responsible for their actions’ foreseeable consequences.)

"I accept he did not subjectively foresee administering a medication that he had prepared would result in the possibility that he would kill the boy. In my opinion, culpable homicide is an acceptable verdict, a lesser offence and a possible alternative verdict. Having reviewed all the evidence presented, I find Josef Feinstein guilty of culpable homicide defined as ‘the unlawful, negligent killing of a human being.’

There was an uproar from the Afrikaner crowd, and they were chanting:

Murder, Murder, Murder.

The Jews standing in the corner all gasped, but other than that, remained silent. Mother, whose hand clenched mine, released her grip and sank to the floor. I shouted for someone to assist me, but no one came. The judge was hammering his gavel furiously while the court clerk was shouting:

Order! Order! Order!

It took a full ten minutes before the clerk was able to restore order in the courtroom. By that time, mother had recovered enough for me to assist her back onto the bench. She was sobbing, and tears were streaming down her face. She was inconsolable.

Judge Tizzard then adjourned the trial until 1 December 1955 for sentencing. He refused the request for bail by Jack Cottrell on behalf of Josef Feinstein, my father.

The clerk stood.

All rise.

As we did, the three men stood and left the podium. The crowd filed out of the room, loudly muttering. My father, who was visibly shocked and hardly able to stand, let alone walk, was hustled out through a separate exit back down to a holding cell supported by the guard and clerk.

The cells, in the bleak, dingy basement, were underneath the courthouse. The chipped concrete walls splattered with green slime from rainwater slowly seeping down them over many years. There was a stench of dampness. A single metal bunk stood in the right corner of the cell, with a thin, stained mattress on top. A metal toilet and washbasin stood in the corner to the left. The washbasin was disgusting - with ingrained dirt in the bowl and rust on the outer edge. One cold-water tap coming out of the wall above the sink was dripping slowly, constantly pinging onto the metal bowl, like Chinese water torture. A solitary light bulb dangled on a cord from the centre of the ceiling. Josef sat on the edge of the metal-framed bed, his head in his hands.

‘How could this have happened?’ he asked himself. ‘All I did was try to relieve the lad’s pain.’

He ransacked his memory to replay the events leading up to the death of the boy. Repeatedly, he ran the medication’s contents through his mind seeking an explanation as to how the boy could have died. He could not come up with an answer.

The Jewish men in court, and their womenfolk gathered outside during the verdict’s reading, came over to my mother to console her. They all expressed their sympathy whilst several women offered to assist her with anything she may need. She gently acknowledged them all as they filed past her and exited the court. Mother and I sat silently for what seemed half an hour. However, I think it must have been just a few minutes before we ultimately exited the courtroom.

We emerged into the blazing hot sunshine. Rosa, my sister, pulled into the curb in her battered 1950 Volkswagen Beetle car. Rust was visible around the rear mudguards, and the pale blue paint had lost its sheen.

Her mental state prevented her from entering the courthouse. She was born in Germany on 27 July 1934. Although only two years old when the family left Germany, those traumatic events had caused a significant effect on her psychologically, from which she never really completely recovered.

In 1951 Rosa, at the age of 17, went on a conducted tour of Israel with the Habonim group and returned some four weeks later. She announced to her mother and father that she wanted to go and live in Israel. She had stayed on Kibbutz HaSolelim, Northern Israel, during those few weeks and vowed she would return. My parents opposed her decision because it was a troublesome and challenging time to live there. They had tried talking her out of it regularly over the previous four years or so, successfully. Now, our mother was adamant; she should not go because of the family’s situation. First, our father was in prison, waiting for his sentence, so she had no right to leave at such a time. Moreover, if they incarcerated our father, our mother would be living alone when I went to university.

I scrambled into the back of her two-door car, and our mother sat in the front. The upholstery was showing its age, worn and torn. It was sweltering in the car as we drove home in silence. There was no air conditioning, and with the windows open, hot air was circulating inside.

Back at my parents’ apartment in Adderley Street, which was above my father’s chemist shop, we all sat down in the lounge. Rosa and I were on the settee while mother was in her rickety rocking chair, her face red from crying and her unkempt brown hair hanging down. It was the first time I had ever seen her look like that. She was an attractive woman. She was 170 cm. (5-foot 7 inches) tall, slim, with an oval-shaped face with high cheekbones, shoulder-length sleek auburn hair with a slight wave in it, and sparkling blue eyes. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn, a prominent British actress. I had seen her picture in a magazine advertising the film ‘Sabrina.’ (In fact, I cut it out and kept it pinned inside my wardrobe. The resemblance to our mother was amazing).

To distract her from our father’s current predicament, I broke the silence.

Mother, did you know your blue eyes may be due to be a genetic mutation of a solitary person in Europe 6,000 to 10,000 years ago? I paused and then continued, Apparently, that person alone led to the development of blue eyes, according to researchers at the University of Copenhagen.

I waited but heard no comment from our mother or sister, so I continued:

Originally, we all possessed brown eyes, but a genetic mutation affecting a gene in the chromosomes resulted in the creation of a switch which turned off the ability to produce brown eyes. So, all blue-eyed individuals emanated from the same ancestor. Isn’t that fascinating?

Shut the hell up! Rosa shouted. Are you mad? You always spew out ridiculous facts that no one wants to hear. Now is not the time! Shut up!

Rosa and I were still on the settee, and I ducked as she swung her right hand at me.

Keep your big mouth shut!

I stood up and walked to the far side of the room by the window. I looked out at the street below. I saw white people, no blacks. Buses were going past, children looking in the window of a toyshop, all sorts of other shops, including grocers and tailors, flower and fruit stalls. It was bustling. Everything seemed so familiar out there. Indoors, the atmosphere was tense. There was silence. Rosa spoke.

Do you want a cup of tea, mother?

No, thank you. came the reply, But I will have a little brandy.

Rosa and I looked at each other. I shrugged.

I’ll get it.

I poured three fingers of brandy into a glass and handed it over. Silence ruled as she quickly consumed the liquid.

It must have been a good fifteen minutes before she spoke, and we were silent during that time. You know, dad, and I have never been apart before, she said as tears began to roll down her cheeks once more.

With all the problems we had in Germany, with our escape here, and with all the trials and tribulations we have gone through, no one ever separated us.

Rosa handed her a handkerchief. She wiped her face before wiping her eyes, which were now quite red and sore looking.

Father and I have never spoken about our family or our lives back home in Germany; how we came here and how we ended up in this situation. I think it is about time you both learned a little of your family’s history. She continued. Your father is in prison, and God knows when or even if we will ever be together again.

I guess she wanted to distract herself from the fact that our father might not be around for some time by talking about their past. However, since neither Rosa nor I knew anything about our family’s history, we were quite keen to listen to her.

Your Grandfather Walter Feinstein was born in 1875 in Kepno, Poland.

What date? I asked.

7 July 1875. Mother continued:

The town was a 19th-century shtetl.

(A shtetl (Yiddish) was a small town with a sizeable Jewish population, which existed in Central and Eastern Europe before the Holocaust. Shtetlach (plural) were found chiefly in the Russian Empire and Hungary, Poland, Austrian Galicia, and Romania.)

The majority of the Jews fled the city during the second half of the 19th century because of the epidemics, cholera, etc. and the feeble living conditions. They left typically for Breslau and the surroundings, Berlin and the Americas. She commented.

Grandfather and his family moved and settled in Berlin in 1900.

Poland did not exist as an independent state during World War I. Its geographical position between the fighting powers meant that much fighting and tremendous human and material losses occurred on the Polish lands between 1914 and 1918.

Your Grandfather had an incredibly successful jewellery business until he enlisted to serve his new country, Germany, in the Great War. He was in the First Battle of the Marne, fought from 6 September 1914 for three days. The Allied troops halted the German advance and mounted a successful counterattack, forcing the Germans back to the north of the Aisne River. Both sides dug into trenches, and the Western Front was the setting for a hellish war of attrition that lasted more than three years. It was there in those trenches that your Grandfather suffered severe injuries."

I sat there in amazement. I had never heard our mother speak with such clarity before. She related it as if she had been there.

He survived the war. However, he was never the same man. The trenches damaged his lungs, and he had difficulty breathing most of the time. He tried hard to re-establish himself in his business. Still, he was not robust enough to work, and he died in October 1920 from lung disease when he was just forty-five.

She paused for a while and then continued once again. Grandmother Sidonia constantly said it was the prolonged war that undoubtedly killed him. She did the best she could to re-build and maintain the business with a modicum of success. Grandma maintained the business until we escaped Germany in 1936. As you know, Max, Grandmother passed away last year on 11 June 1954. She is in Pinelands Cemetery. Maybe we should visit her grave, she muttered.

Mother paused yet again and asked for more brandy. I carefully poured her another three fingers. This time she sipped it slowly while thinking to herself. Soon she continued,

Grandmother Sidonia married your Grandfather on 28 January. 1901, in the Adass Yisroel Synagogue in Berlin.

The Adass Yisroel Synagogue was the religious synagogue near where the family lived in Mitte. It opened in 1869 under the direct supervision of Rabbi Azriel Hildesheimer.

(Rabbi Hildesheimer was a German Rabbi and prominent leader of Orthodox Judaism. People universally regarded him as a pioneering moderniser of Orthodox Judaism in Germany and as a founder of Modern Orthodox Judaism.)

At that time, the local congregation was in Gipsstrasse. In 1904, they moved to Artilleriestrasse.

The officiating Rabbi at your father’s parents’ wedding was Ezra Munk, she said.

(Ezra Munk studied at the Berlin Rabbinical Seminary under his uncle Ezriel Hildesheimer and at the Universities of Berlin and Koenigsberg. In 1897, when he was Rabbi at Koenigsberg, his congregation split from the general community. In 1900, he succeeded Hildesheimer as Rabbi of the Adass Yisroel congregation in Berlin.)

And the three things he implored us to keep were the Sabbath, a kosher home, and meat slaughtered under the laws of Shechita.(2)

Tell us about your father and mother. Grandfather Ludwig and Grandmother Esther Levinson, I suggested.

Not now, mother responded, I’m tired.

Go and lie down, and I will fetch a cup of tea for you, Rosa said softly.

Mother stood up from her chair. She lurched forward, and I stepped forward quickly to aid her to regain her balance. ‘Too much brandy,’ I thought. I escorted her to the bedroom and helped her onto the bed. By the time Rosa brought in a cup of tea, dear mother was sleeping soundly. It had been an exhausting day. The shock of the verdict against my father must have shaken her to the core. I was genuinely surprised that she managed to talk about the family at all.

****

Mother and I were back in court for the sentencing hearing, which began on 1 December. Jewish community defence witnesses recommended a two- year community service sentence with 20 hours of community service each month. In a prepared statement issued by Rudi’s parents, the deceased boy, they stated they would not testify in the hearing. They had decided not to proceed with a separate civil lawsuit. Rudi Rutter’s uncle Henkjan Rutter