The Unexpected Kindness of Aunty Hannah’s Family
Yom Kippur has just come and gone. We had to stop services at one point because it was not yet time to break the fast. Some of the ladies were upset and impatient. “What are we waiting for?” “We are waiting for three stars to appear in the sky,” I said. “I never heard of that!” commented one of the ladies. I looked at her. She is one of the younger generation. Nowadays, the information is carefully recorded for your convenience. When I was young, we used a different method of knowing about things. We looked up to the sky to tell if it would rain or snow, to know if it was noon or past sunset. I remember being taught in school about the different conditions of the sky and what they mean. Nowadays, you just go to the weather channel or the clock. Remembering that, reminded me of Aunty Hannah and her family. This story is about them. While on a trip to England, Papa met with one of his business associates. I do not know how the subject of boarding schools came about, but it did. The business associate, whom I suspect was a Mr. Robbins, recommended St. James’ College in Malvern, Worcester. Mr. Robbins later became our guardian. My father enrolled my sister Nora and me on the spur of the moment, then telegraphed my mother. ‘I HAVE ENROLLED STELLA AND NORA IN A BOARDING SCHOOL IN ENGLAND STOP PREPARE TO SEND THEM TO LONDON BY THE END OF THE WEEK STOP I AM AWAITING THEIR ARRIVAL THERE STOP’ Since there had not even been an inkling of such a discussion concerning any boarding schools in England or anywhere else, for that matter, Mama was caught off guard. We were in a very good school in Tehran, the Community School. We had been going there ever since primary school, and I was now in Junior High. School had already started, so it was a puzzlement to my mother why he had enrolled us in boarding school. Nevertheless, she hurriedly shopped for clothing and other necessities. Before we knew what was happening, we were bundled off onto a KLM flight to London. It was during the last days of September in the year 1957. I was going to turn fourteen in a month; Nora had turned eleven two months prior. We had never left home before and never been without our family. You could say we were very mollycoddled and protected children. We came from a country where the sun shone constantly. There was no weather like English weather in Tehran. We may have a few days of cloudy skies and snow in winter, but never weather such as this. We landed in a London which seemed grey and dismal. It felt so alien to us. After two or so days in London, we took a train from Paddington Station to Malvern. I remember looking out the window and mostly just seeing cows, cows, and more cows grazing on lush green open fields. Once in a while, we saw a town or a village. Everything was so different from what we were accustomed to. Papa had previously reserved a hotel room in Malvern. We dined and went to our hotel room. We chatted a bit, then we went to sleep. It had been a whirlwind few days. We did not have a chance to absorb everything that had occurred. We were tired and nervous. It was all so new to us. Everything had happened so fast and abruptly; we did not have a chance to absorb it all. Leave Tehran; go to London; leave London; come to Malvern! After breakfast the next morning, we took a taxi to the school. Miss Anstruther, the headmistress, greeted us in her office. After what I thought was polite conversation, someone came to fetch us and show us about the school. We were not given a chance to say goodbye properly to Papa. We gazed at him longingly. One minute he was there, and the next minute he was gone. We felt desolate. ‘Wait! Wait! Papa! Papa, please don’t go!’ We were amongst strangers. We felt like crying, but how could we? Somehow we got through the first day. Since we had arrived late during the term, we were given a room for just the two of us. The room was cold and damp. I had the impression that the room served as a storage room. Perhaps it was because we arrived at the eleventh hour that they converted it into a bedroom. We shivered in the chilly English September weather as we got into our nighties. To top it off, that night Matron came in, opened the window for fresh air, and put off the lights. You couldn’t have found two more miserable young girls if you tried that evening. The air was chilly and damp. It took us a long time to fall asleep in that strange place. It seemed we had only slept a wink before it was morning. At the crack of dawn, there was Matron again. It was time to get up and run to Archway. Archway? What’s Archway? Nora and I walked toward the open window to see what kind of day it promised to be. Thick fog enveloped everything. Through the fog, we vaguely discerned a graveyard with tombstones lined up in neat rows in front of us. We had never before seen a graveyard except in the movies. We gulped with fear and alarm. In our culture, the dead were buried separately from the living. We did not even know people who had died, and here we were with our bedroom window just on top of a cemetery full of dead people! How were we supposed to react? How were we supposed to feel? Well, what we felt was panic and fear. This was not something we had experienced before. How we wished we could turn around and go back home! But we had to go to Archway, whatever that was. Since we did not own uniforms, nor lace-up shoes, we went with our ordinary clothes, which were the stylish dresses and pretty shoes we owned. We followed the other girls who wore egg yolk-colored Aero shirts and navy blue woolen knickers. We ran a distance to this place called Archway and back. We then made up our stripped-down beds and went down for breakfast. Breakfast was served in a huge dining hall with long rows of tables and chairs to accommodate the two hundred or so girls in the school. On a platform was another long table where the headmistress and the teachers sat. Each day, four girls were chosen to sit at the high table. That way, we were taught to hold polite conversation with the teachers sitting there. Since there was still rationing from the war, we were served such things as beans on toast. Sundays, we might have an egg on top of the beans. It was nothing like the breakfasts we ate at home. At home, we would have fruits, cheeses, eggs, hot fresh bread, butter, jams, and honey. That day was spent measuring us for school uniforms. We were to have everyday school uniforms and the ‘best’ ones. We had to have everyday grey Viyella shirts and weekend gold-colored ones; we needed ties and cardigans, all in navy blue. They measured our heads for boaters. These were stiff, uncomfortable straw hats that balanced on top of one’s head. One wrong move of the head, and they could topple off! They were a torture! Furthermore, we were told we had ‘atrocious’ American accents. It was immediately arranged that we have stringent elocution lessons to get rid of these accents. Somehow, with great difficulty and much struggle, we managed to survive that first term. Poor Papa, it had not occurred to him that he had to plan lodgings for us for the Christmas and Easter holidays. Discovering that no arrangements were made for our holiday break, urgent phone calls were made at the end of the term to poor Mr. Robbins as to what to do. He, in turn, sent telegrams to Papa in Tehran. I do not think that when he suggested to my father that he should place his daughters into boarding school in England, Mr. Robbins had imagined he would become so entrenched in our chaotic affairs. He had become our guardian. It had simply not dawned upon my father when he registered us into school that he would have to arrange for somewhere for us to stay during holidays. However, Papa had a good friend in London. He turned to him for help. Uncle Isaac, as we called him when we met him, was a bachelor. He could not take care of us. However, between him and Papa, they figured that my father’s great-uncle’s widow, son, and daughter would perhaps agree to take us in for the holidays. Uncle Isaac approached them, and the family very graciously agreed to take us in. We did not know it then, but they were to become a very dear and integral part of our lives and that of our family. They opened their home and hearts to us, two young girls who were strangers to them, without asking any questions. In return, we loved them unconditionally and stayed connected with them until the end of their lives. To the day I die, I will not stop loving them with a deep, abiding love. They were very special. We were blessed to know them. The family was originally from Baghdad many, many years ago, but in the early 1900s, they emigrated to Burma. Sometime before or during WWII, they moved once more. This time they went to England, specifically to London. Aunty Hannah was a tiny, dynamic lady who was bent over with arthritis. She wore her long, snowy white hair in a thin, long braid down her back. She wore long smock-like dresses with deep pockets on each side of the skirt. She somehow acted and resembled my great-grandmother, Yemma, in size, dress, and her being quite religious. She loved spicy little yellow Indian snacks. She had them all about the house. I cannot describe them. They were not too spicy, and they were crunchy, and I developed a taste for them. Loved them! She had a small kitchen with an eating area. Nora and I were not allowed into the kitchen proper, perhaps because I had tried to be helpful and mixed up all her Kosher meat and dairy dishes. Everything I had touched had to be buried in the garden for a specified number of days to be koshered once more. What a disaster I had created, but I did not know any better. In our home, Kashrut was not practiced. We must have created such havoc in their calm routine. I was forgiven, but my sister and I were never allowed into the kitchen past a certain imaginary demarcation line! Aunty Moselle was a kind and gentle lady. She was not a fashion-conscious one, like Mama. She wore simple, straight skirts and tops. She did not wear makeup, except for pink lipstick. Her hair was not fashionably coiffed, just sensibly cut and combed. There was always a look of pure kindness about her. She seemed to want to make sure that everyone was always comfortable. Uncle Bertie always had a slight, kind smile curling on his lips. When I think of him, it is always seeing him dressed in a tweed jacket and color-coordinated flannel trousers. His shoes were always highly polished. He was thoughtful. He would bring little treats that were sure to please us. They all had a very quiet and gentle demeanor. Neither of the siblings was ever married. The most fiery of them all was Aunty Hannah, their mother. Since we were new in the country and it was Christmas, one Saturday evening they decided that we were to go see the Christmas lights on Oxford Street and Bond Street. Aunty Hannah was a smoker. She was anxious to first have her cigarette after the Sabbath. Several times, before we were to leave, she sent either Nora or me outside to see if there were three stars in the sky. Her hand would be in her pocket, caressing her pack of cigarettes. At last there were three stars; she leaned back on her armchair, sighed with contentment, and lit her first cigarette of the new week. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply and with delight. She relished that first cigarette. At last, she was done. She put on an extra hand-knit woolen cardigan. She wrapped her head with a warm, woolly scarf and wore her overcoat. She wrapped herself with another scarf for good measure. At last, she was ready. Uncle Bertie gently led her to the car. She sat in front with him. We sat in the back on either side of Aunty Moselle, and off we went to see the lights. Although the lights were quite spectacular, it was the warmth of their goodness and their love that lingers in my memory. It stayed with me throughout all these many years. Time went by. I returned to Tehran. I got married and was expecting my first child. Aunty Hannah in London was thrilled when she heard I was going to be a mother. She proceeded to knit and knit and knit. She sent me sets and sets of little outfits. She sent them all to me in Tehran, one batch after the other. Sadly, she never got to see Kelly. She passed away before he arrived. I still have most of the baby outfits she knit. Aunty Hannah and Aunty Moselle lived at the house on 468 Finchley Road. Uncle Bertie lived in a flat elsewhere. They are all gone now. Aunty Hannah passed away first. She was quite old, perhaps in her nineties, close to a hundred. Some years later, Aunty Moselle and Uncle Bertie went to Egypt during the time that peace was expected between Israel and Anwar Sadat’s Egypt. Uncle Bertie and Aunty Moselle were sailing down the Nile River on a tour. As they sailed, she suffered a massive heart attack and passed away there and then. Uncle Bertie was left all by himself, but his dear friend and partner, Jack Cohen, who lived in Australia, persuaded him to go live with him and his family, which he did. One morning, he did not come down for breakfast. When they went up to check on him, they found him gone. He had passed away peacefully in his bed. I have many precious memories of my adopted family. I remember winter mornings walking on Finchley Road with Aunty Moselle, food shopping. Those stores do not exist any longer. The food stores had open-air displays. As we passed by, the aroma of the various foods mingled in the crisp, cold winter air. I remember the smell of oranges, lemons, and apples mixing with the fish and other foods. The smell of roasted chestnuts made my nose twitch with pleasure. Just remembering those times makes me wish I could go back in time. We would stop at the various stores; then we would stop by the poultry store. There was always a display of tiny chicken eggs from the cavity on ice. My eyes would light up. At home, we used to have chicken soup with these tiny, delicious eggs from the cavity. Aunty Moselle noticed me looking at them. Being the sensitive person that she was, that night there was the soup that we were served at home. Kindness, love, and caring—that’s what they all had and gave wholeheartedly. I remember them taking us along when they were invited somewhere. They behaved as if we were a dear part of their family. Whenever I went to London, I made sure to stop at 468 Finchley Road. I would stand on tiptoe and peek through the window, hoping no one would accuse me of being a peeping Tom. I was not interested in how it looked then; I just imagined it the way it used to be. I imagined the two exquisite Victorian dolls that sat on the mantel in the living room, the black-and-white television that we watched at Christmastime to listen to the Queen’s message to the country. We all sat quietly and respectfully as she spoke. I remember getting off the Underground at Finchley Road and walking towards Boots. I loved Boots. I still love Boots. I loved buying Paquin Handcream with its lemony aroma. I would walk up and down the aisles, touching, sniffing the different scents and the talcum powder. I would purchase these items, walk up to their home, then go upstairs to the bedroom I shared with Nora, and try them on. Somehow, I always relate Boots Chemist to Aunty Hannah and her family and home. The last time I peeked through the windows of 468 Finchley Road, it had changed so completely; it was hard to imagine it the way it used to be, but that is okay, because in my mind I can see us all the way we were. We were strangers until our families became one. That was because of their kindness and generosity of spirit. If they had refused to take care of the two young girls we were, our lives would have been so barren of all the love they poured upon us. We were truly blessed to have them in our lives.