I Escaped, But Only Just - Part 3: Undercurrents Of Disquiet

A year or so passed. My older brother Brian started at a prestigious school, but my middle brother Robin and I struggled, both at school and at home. We had phobias. We’d hide when my mother used to the blender in the kitchen, running from the sound that filled the house with its frightening and echoing din. We had repetitive nightmares about ghosts, the same nightmare with similar characters.

In one dream, we found ourselves playing drums in a band that the ghosts had organised, and I remember the bedroom being obscured in some way – foggy perhaps, even though the light was on. On a different occasion, we fled to our parents' bedroom, away from the ghosts.  Even there, the hissing continued, along with flickering of movement across the walls of my parents’ bedroom.  

‘I don’t like it,’ I cried.  

More hissing, as if in response to my words.

Were ghosts actually responsible?  I don’t know.  A thunderstorm cause easily have created the hissing and flickering effects that night.  Still, I have my suspicions.  

I had already attended three schools, and I'd only just turned seven. I was too disruptive. Robin seemed less unsettled at the local school a few minutes walk from our house.  I attended there for a while. He would join me in the playground during break time and teach me swear words he’d learnt from the boys in his class.  
      
Each Saturday, our family went to one of the local Orthodox synagogues, where Robin and I caused further mayhem.  A trained Cantor or Chazon led part of the service from a platform in the centre of the hall. He was a superb singer, a true professional. Robin and I used to join in with the Chazon when he reached his crescendos at critical points in the liturgy, both of us screaming in excitement and maintaining our screams as the Chazon held the note. But he didn’t appear to mind.

At the end of the service, we’d make our way to the platform and the Chazon would reach deep into a seat compartment, clasp our hands, wish us a good Shabbos and give us sweets, warmth and compassion radiating from his eyes.

Not everyone was as kind or as accommodating, though. We got to know the man who sat next to us each Saturday.  He and his family lived close to us and we’d often go to their home for refreshments after the service.  

During a service one Saturday morning, he beckoned to me and pointed to a word in his prayer book, written in Hebrew.  ‘What does this say?’

‘I don't know,’ I said, staring at the hieroglyphics on the page. I could barely read English, let alone Hebrew.  

He looked at me in disgust. ‘When you get to your Barmitzvah, you won't be able to read a word. You'll stand there blubbering like an idiot and everyone will laugh at you. And your parents will be ashamed of you.’    

Although his prediction didn’t come true, it pointed towards future rejection from the Jewish Community as a whole.  

And along with that rejection would come danger.  Life threatening danger.