The Cable Street Battle

Abstract

Sunday walked the mile through the sooty slums of London's 1936 Jewish East End to pay homage to the matriarch, my grandmother, Booba. Mummy had dressed me in my autumn red hat and coat. In spite of that, a little shiver ran through my body. Suppose the Wolf was hiding behind the forest of old East End buildings. Suppose the Fascist girl jumped out, banged me hard over the head with a plank again, giving me a headache and shouted, Jewgirl! Then there were my two young uncles, who worked in Booba's grocery shop. What new mischief had they prepared for me? On my last visit, Uncle Max had laughed and said, Come and sit on my lap and watch smoke come out of my ears. Trustingly, had climbed on his lap, stared hard at his ears, and nearly choked as he blew cigarette smoke into my face. Uncle Sam, when was bored, told me to count the rice in the huge sack. When saw that one hundred grains did not even fill my small palm, and looked at the enormous sack, saw him laugh at me. Finally, had to face my grandmother, Booba, she who could melt wallpaper with her acid tongue, and who studied me from head to foot to see everything on me was perfect. After this inspection, she always bent down over the marble grocery shop counter, and offered me her cool cheek to kiss. For kindness, would need to find my grandfather, Zada, who would sweep me into his strong arms?he'd been in the Czar's Cavalry?and whisper, Bubbele, zeeselle, fleegelle, little doll, little sweet one, little wing, hugging and kissing me, his stubble scratching my cheek. Zada would be across the cobbled backyard in the granary, singing Yiddish songs, while weighing rice, beans and barley into one-pound brown paper bags. A girl of seven, small, but wiry, like my deaf daddy, walked the mile safely this time. You only weighed five pounds when you were Mummy told me. I never wanted to marry, Booba insisted, nor have a child, especially in the Depression. Daddy wanted a My fault was born, thought. My fault was not a boy. As entered the spotless shop, glittering under electric lights, Booba stood in her white coat at the counter, a long serrated knife